


A Higher Form of War

by Ael_tRlailiiu



Series: Black Swans [4]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Child In Danger, Gen, Kidnapping, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael_tRlailiiu/pseuds/Ael_tRlailiiu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The World Security Council may be disintegrating, but they can still agree on one thing: the Avengers have to go.</p><p>Set a few months after "Who You Are in the Dark."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of this story depends on my interpretation of what the WSC and SHIELD are and how they work (http://thisisevenharderthannamingablog.tumblr.com/post/33771239527/a-theory-of-shield). Infinite thanks are due to IndigoStarblaster and hellseries for beta-reading.

Natasha puked up what felt like half of the Firth of Forth into the bottom of the boat, aware of voices—male and female—and a hand on her shoulder and a burning in her throat, her arms, her legs. So cold, she couldn't feel her hands, her feet, but burning down in her bones. Warm, rough hands chafed at her.

The final spasm faded. Two voices in native accents debated the calling of emergency services and who was an idiot and what ought to be done.

She blurred her own accent in responding, “I'm all right. I'm all right.”

“Ye're no all right, ye're—”

“Fell. In the water. Just cold. I'm all right.” Natasha took in her surroundings—a small boat, big enough for only a few hours excursion, rocking sharply with their motion as one of the other two aboard stood up. Aside from herself, the boat contained two young people, a cooler of beer, and a fishing pole soon to be lost over the side if no one tended it. Natasha's hands tingled as feeling began to return. She had a knife tucked into the small of her back—had lost the other one, fighting in the dark, under the water—and a garotte around her left wrist, nothing else. “Did you—see anyone else? Anyone with me?”

They had been in their own boat, one a lot like this one, their watchpost for the long hours of gathering information. The crack—an explosion underwater?—the lurch, the fall. The drag, pulling her under—there had been two of them, she thought—the fight and the long drift away from awareness into the clanging dark.

The man shook his head and looked at his companion. “Didn't see anyone. D'you?”

“Nae, saw naebody a'tall until you shouted. Ye're bleedin',” she added, touching her throat with a fearful gesture.

“Just a scratch.” _Steve._ She looked back at the shore, at the lights of Edinburgh smeared against the evening sky. It hurt to breathe. She shuddered violently, but awareness of the cold was an improvement over being numb. Late October was no time for swimming at this latitude. One of the locals had bundled her into a jacket. She had left her own behind in the water, and her boots, and her handbag in the other boat, probably at the bottom now.

Steve Rogers could not possibly have seen her go into the water without trying to help her. There had been splashes. She didn't remember seeing him, but the water had been dark, and they had been—she touched her throat. Her fingers came away wet, not with water. They had been trying very hard to kill her. And him?

The first rule: stay dead, until she knew.

*

Clint reviewed the document on the desk in mounting shock.

“Is this a fucking joke? I'm not signing this.” It had been a long, boring, annoying day of the usual debriefings and forms and checks after a long, boring, annoying (but successful) mission. All he wanted was to get back to the city and chill out for a day or so, then maybe hit a brew pub with Thor.

The SHIELD aide shrugged. “Okay.” He scribbled a note at the bottom of his own copy and initialed it.

“You're fucking kidding me.” Clint glared at the aide, who remained impassive. It was hard not to think that the place had gone to hell since Coulson died, but there had always been this side to the organization. The helicarrier wasn't all all brand-new high-tech flash; it had plenty of rooms in the lower levels just like this one, dingy little closets full of filing cabinets and chairs that squeaked and officious little people who sat in one and put forms in the other. The only thing separating them from a career in any other government branch was that most of them also knew multiple ways to kill you. “Does Fury know about this?”

The man actually rolled his eyes. “Does Fury ever _not_ know something?”

“I want to talk to him. I didn't _say_ any of this.” Not on the mission, not on the flight back, not in any of the debriefing sessions. Not in any of the previous three flawless missions before this one. What the everloving _fuck_.

“It's all in the file, all in the records. I'll put in your request for a meeting, but the Director is a busy man. You know how the process works, you know this is only temporary, right?”

“This is _bullshit_.” A temporary (paid) leave of absence pending psychiatric evaluation based on statements made would make all the sense in the world, except that he hadn't said any of it. He would have remembered saying anything that might make it sound like he was on the brink of an _episode_ of some kind, of either offing himself or taking out the cafeteria beforehand. What the fucking hell?

He would have remembered. Even under Loki, he remembered everything.

“If you say so.” The clerk shrugged, eyebrows raised. “Anything else?”

Everything he was thinking at the moment would get him not just suspended but arrested for assault. He left the room without another word and made sure to slam the door.

The only thing that earned him was an escort to the deck, and from there onto the afternoon launch back to the city.

*

“Hey.” Tony was startled to see Clint walk off the elevator and head for the wet bar like a man on a mission. “Help yourself, I guess.”

The only reply came in the form of glass clicking on glass as Clint poured. He didn't even put down the bottle before he slammed the drink down and poured another one.

“Mind if I join you?” Being something of an expert on the subject, solitary drinking at that pace wasn't something Tony necessarily liked to see.

“S'your booze.”

“Our booze. _My_ booze is where you philistines can't get to it.”

Nothing.

Okay, that was a bit worrying. Tony poured himself a judicious two fingers and waited, fidgeting with the phone in his pocket and wondering if he ought to use it. Anyone who needed _him_ to talk them off a ledge was in sad shape, given that he'd pretty much built a condo there. However. Pepper was in Singapore on business. Cap and Natasha were somewhere secret on an errand for SHIELD, having ignored Tony's opinion on the idea of Captain America going undercover. Bruce was good at lots of things, but this might not be one of them. Thor was... Thor.

Clint was on his third drink before he said, “I've been suspended.”

“For what?”

“Leave of absence, officially. Until I get my head screwed on straight.”

Tony considered this. “Something happen in... wherever?”

“Venezuela. And no. Not that I know of.”

“You're not making much sense.”

“No. It doesn't.” He blinked, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pistol. Before Tony could do more than set his own glass down in shock, Clint put the gun on the bar and stared at it as if he had never seen one before. “They didn't make me turn this over.”

“So?” He knew—okay, he had a fair estimation of—the number of weapons Clint Barton had in his quarters. Taking away his regulation pistol wasn't going to stop him from doing a damn thing.

“Something is royally fucked up in SHIELD right now.”

“Tell me something I didn't know.”

Clint recounted his afternoon. The alcohol had taken some off of his edge off.

Tony gave the glass in his hand a baffled look. “You're right, this makes no sense. Hey, JARVIS.”

“Sir?”

“Check Mr. Barton's files and—”

“No,” Clint said. “No, hold on a second here. Let me talk to Fury. I've got an appointment in the morning. Whatever's going on, whoever's playing games in there, he'll get it sorted out, or else we'll know more about what's going on. One night won't kill me, it's—” His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

Tony retreated a few steps, but stopped when the rest of the color drained out of Clint's skin.

“I'll be there as soon as I can,” he said. He hung up and looked east. “That was Steve. It's Nat. She's... I need to get to Edinburgh. Fast as possible. Just me,” he added before Tony could ask. “Plus gear.”

Not commercial, then. “Jet'll be ready to go by the time you get to it.”

Clint nodded, returned his pistol to its holster and finished his drink on his way to the door. He and Natasha both had an enviable way of moving quickly without looking like they were hurrying.

Tony made the calls to get the jet ready. Maybe he should get a bigger one. He called Steve. No answer.

“I can see it's gonna be one of those days.” He finished the drink, considered another one. Considered what might have happened to Natasha that could scare Clint that badly, and the fact that Iron Man's presence had been emphatically not requested. “So, JARVIS, about those files. Let's see what we can find out.”

*

The door closed behind Steve. He waited two seconds with his hands in plain sight, motionless, and heard nothing.

“I won't try to stop you,” Steve said. “If you want to shoot.” He couldn't do this again, couldn't lose like this again.

“Tell me what happened.” Clint remained in the shadows, unmoving, the gun steady in his hand. Natasha had put alarms out, but obviously Clint would know how to get around the ones on the windows. The house creaked softly in the early-morning cold, an over-priced bed and breakfast affair with ready access to the target's hotel and the waterfront where she had been spending most of her time. “We're private here, I checked the place out.”

_Dear sir/ma'am, I am sorry to report that on date your son was killed in action._

“We've been here a week. Observation only.” A week he had thoroughly enjoyed, more than he expected to. Had enjoyed having something useful to do, a way to help Natasha, even if it was only providing low-key maintenance for her cover here. He ran errands and played the newly-acquired fling in public ( _Played rugby in school, not much upstairs, but... compensations, y'know? And she had actually snapped her gum_ ). Nights they had talked shop, weapons and European history and modern politics from her unique perspective. “Arms dealer, SHIELD wanted an eye kept on her, see if we could identify any associates. Nothing too close, didn't want to spook her.” Bit of a low-stakes practice run for Steve, not that anyone had called it that out loud, to find out if he would take to it.

“But you did.”

“I don't know.” He took a breath. “No signs of it ahead of time if we did. We were out on a boat we'd rented, doing the tourist thing, watching the yacht. The attack was from underwater, there were three of them at least. SCUBA gear. Placed an explosive, I think. Something small. Boat went up on end, and she went under.”

“And what did you do?”

“Went in after her. Got two of them, but they're dead.” Hard to pull punches, to go for a disable, in the dark down there. “Didn't see any sign of her. The water's—”

“I know how deep the fucking water is here. Why aren't you still in it?”

“Because the EMTs yanked me out after an hour. Nobody's found anything, not a... nothing. Why isn't anyone at SHIELD answering calls?” The question sounded a quieter theme under the beat of grief and failure in his chest, but he very much wanted it answered.

Clint's forehead creased, but his aim didn't waver. “Who'd you try?”

“They gave me two emergency contact protocols, plus I know Hill's direct line. Tried them all before I called you. No response to any messages from the first two. From Hill, I'm not even getting into voice mail.”

Clint appeared to be thinking. “I have not been in contact with SHIELD since yesterday afternoon. You want to turn the lights on?”

Steve blinked. “What? Why? How'd you get here?” He moved slowly when he flipped the room's switch.

“Stark's jet.”

“With his permission?”

“Yes, actually. When did all of this happen?”

Too long ago. “Maybe an hour before I called you. Around seven o'clock, here. Sunset.”

Clint lowered the gun, though he didn't put the safety on. “At roughly that same time, I was sitting in a flunky's office on the carrier, getting my ass suspended from duty for being all kinds of mentally unstable.”

“ _What?”_

“This strikes me as an unlikely coincidence. You?”

“Damn straight it's no coincidence.” He drew a breath, forced aside the memory of Natasha in the water. “But how? And who could pull off something on that scale, something that complicated?”

Clint frowned. “They wanted her. They would have sent more if it was you.”

“Looks like it. Why? Someone striking at SHIELD?”

“Could be that. Could be any of a long list of possibles. That's not the most important question anyway.”

“No?”

“The question is whether she's alive.”

Steve felt every weary muscle tighten in anguish. “Clint.”

“Shut it.” His eyes hit Steve's like a blow. “Who have you spoken to here?”

“Emergency services people. No signs of anything weird there, no one asking things they shouldn't.” Like _what the hell is Captain America doing here_. Whatever else they were, SHIELD knew how to build a cover, even for a minor operation like this one.

“This place is clean, as far as that goes.” Clint glanced around the room. “Witnesses on the scene?”

“Half a dozen. None of them saw anything useful. Who else knows you're here?”

“Plane crew, who I gather are paid very well to be discreet. Talked to Stark before I left. He doesn't know the specifics.”

Steve frowned.

Clint lifted a shoulder. “He's not exactly an expert at keeping his mouth shut.”

“This doesn't seem like a good time to keep secrets from each other. Not if she's dead, and even more so if she's not, if she needs us. Not if this is something coordinated.”

Clint considered that and pulled a cheap flip-phone out of his pocket. He didn't put the gun away, Steve noticed, while he sent a text message. Two minutes later the phone rang.

“Yo,” Clint said. “Putting you on speaker.”

“It's about fucking time,” Tony said. “Trying to reach you people for hours. Communications are all down at the helicarrier.”

“Normally if that happened I would think it was your fault.”

“And normally you might be right. I did a fly-by a couple hours ago. Lights are on, nobody's answering. No distress flags, nobody on deck—and nobody shot at me, for what that's worth.”

“You do know that the carrier's location at any given time is supposed to be a _secret._ ”

“You're hysterical, Barton. You guys making any progress?”

“Well, I've decided not to shoot Cap.”

“Uh... good? Glad to hear it? Do I finally get to join the know-what-the-fuck-is-going-on club?”

Clint's expression twisted into something possibly intended as a smile. “Someone tried to take out Natasha. We don't know who, or whether they succeeded. I'm going to find out.”

A moment of silence. “All... right.” Steve could practically see Tony looking at the ceiling as he said it, all gears engaged.

Clint said, “I'm going to look for her. No one else has any chance of finding her if she's gone to ground. You should head back, Cap, and see what you can find over there. If this is something aimed at all of SHIELD, you'll do more good there than here.”

“Makes sense.” Steve nodded. “You need anything?” He didn't _want_ to feel any hope, but couldn't bring himself to deny it entirely. Clint knew her, had known her for years. He wouldn't be kidding himself now if there wasn't a chance.

“Brought everything with me.”

“You should have some backup. If this is a trap....” Steve didn't like the idea of leaving him there alone, even if he was absolutely the best equipped of them for this hunt.

“If it is—my eyes are open, Captain.” Finally, Clint put the gun away.

“Check in or something once in a while, or I'll rent out your room,” Tony said. “I'll bring Thor and Banner up to speed.”

“You do that.” No hint of a smile.

The next two hours Steve spent closing out the mission with as much grace as he could muster, however much it grated on him. Clint had listened to a more detailed explanation of events and gone out hunting; he knew a few people in Edinburgh, or so he claimed, and knew the kind of place Natasha would go if she was in need. They had made arrangements for phone drops and blind email accounts to share information that did not rely on SHIELD, from whom and about whom there was still no word at all.

 _How the hell does an entire government organization disappear overnight? Where is Fury? And why the hell hasn't anyone been in touch with us?_ He would have thought that the Avengers were pretty high up the need-to-know list.

By four in the morning Steve was in the air, racing the time zones across the Atlantic and checking for messages every ten minutes. Clint had left one to let them know he was still alive. By six, Steve was fighting his way through the morning commuter flight crowds, tired and anxious to get progress on something, anything, when the concourse news ticker caught his attention.

“...Shooter fled on foot, police are asking that anyone with any knowledge come forward. The total number of casualties is not yet known, but billionaire Tony Stark was reportedly among those taken to local hospitals. No word on anyone's condition as of yet, and we'd like to repeat.... ”


	2. Widening Gyre

Cold.

“He's shivering.” Familiar voice. Steve?

Sounds of someone moving. “It's the anesthesia wearing off. Happens a lot.” Someone put something warm over him. That helped.

“Tony? It's Steve. You're okay.”

“'Kay?” He blinked, aware now of all sorts of annoying sensations—blood pressure cuff, IV, the slowly retreating chill. Fucking hospitals. He tried to focus on Steve's worried expression.

“You are the luckiest son of a bitch I have ever met.” That ridiculously earnest face relaxed a little at the eye contact.

He didn't feel lucky, but he managed to raise an eyebrow.

“Bullet hit the reactor housing. They got it out intact. You've got a sprained wrist, forty stitches, and you're down a quart or so of blood. A couple of weeks and you should be good as new.”

_Wow, okay. Not good. Still, not dead._

“Hogan.” Trying to move, _bad_ idea. “He was—”

_was turning and making a funny little sound and pushing Tony down and_

Steve put a hand on his shoulder as if to keep him in place, though it wasn't necessary. Fuck, that hurt. Thor was occupying the entire doorway with his own worried expression. Between the two Avengers and a nurse, the room was way too crowded. Deep breaths. Focus on Steve.

“Happy's here, just down the hall. Punctured lung, but he's going to pull through. Your phone sacrificed itself in the line of duty, though.” Steve glanced over at the nurse. “Could you give us a moment?”

The man nodded, edged around Thor, and closed the door behind him.

“You remember what happened?” Steve asked.

“Sure. I didn't get hit in the head.”

“And?” Steve got up and wandered around the room in a totally un-Steve-like fashion, hands in his jacket pockets.

“Getting coffee, heard a gunshot, Happy got all stupid and heroic at me, and apparently I got shot. Who else?”

“Nine other people. Three didn't make it. Shooter got away.” Steve made three slow circuits that way, pulled something small out of his pocket and set it on one of the monitors, then pulled out his phone and tapped it twice.

JARVIS said through the phone, “I detect no listening devices in this room, Captain.”

“Thanks,” Steve said.

“Where did you—” Tony started to ask. He knew he hadn't left anything like that lying around outside the workshop, which Rogers should _not_ be in.

“Sorry. Emergency, JARVIS concurred. We have one hell of a problem. No way this was a coincidence, not after Natasha and what happened to Clint. Did you get anything else on SHIELD after we talked?”

“Not a thing. They've gone dark. Can't bust into their systems when they're all turned off.”

“What the hell.” He made another frustrated turn around the room. “Bruce was supposed to meet us here. He's not answering. When did you last see him?”

“Last night. After our conference call.” He looked at Thor, who stood frowning, arms crossed. The three of them had sat around for a half hour in fretful and useless attempts to figure out among them what could be going on, and then gone their separate ways. “He was in the lab when I went out? I think.” Too jittery to work or sleep, Tony had kept half-dialing Pepper only to decide it would be better to wait until they had something concrete to tell her, and finally decided that a walk was in order.

“He was,” Thor said. “I saw him there myself before flying here upon receiving your call, Captain. Under the circumstances,” he added to Tony, “I thought it better to have you guarded than not, but it seems that I chose ill.”

“It's not your fault.” Steve leaned on the windowsill. “But he wouldn't have kited off now, not with all of this going on.”

“Might have,” Tony said, more to cover the spike of panic than because he thought it was true. “Hulking out in a hospital is kind of his worst nightmare.”

“He would have _said_ something.”

He couldn't really argue, much as he wanted to. “So. Not something targeted just at SHIELD.” For which read about a thousand repetitions of _Oh, fuck._

“Unless someone considers us part of SHIELD.”

“Like hell we are.” It was amazing how indignant that could make him. “So what's our next move?”

“Your next move is to hold still for a while. They're not letting you out of here for at least a couple of days.”

“Oh like fuck they—” He managed to sit up, though he regretted doing it.

“Tony. You got _shot_ in the _chest_.”

“So?”

Steve gave him a patient look. “I don't need to be worrying about any of the rest of you right now.”

That was a _low_ fucking blow. _One day, Rogers, I am going to... break my hand on your jaw, most likely, but I'll enjoy it._

“Stay here,” Steve repeated, and he looked so damn young and so damn tired. “We need you, okay? But that means you don't try checking yourself out of here when you can barely stand up. _If_ you can stand up. Heck, maybe if you can give a convincing rendition of being at death's door _they won't try again_. This is big, this is organized, we need to get on top of it, fast, but we are already down to half-strength. This is not the time to charge in without thinking.”

“I'm going to buy every display in Times Square and have them read 'Captain America is an asshole' for a month.”

“When this is over, you do that. Thor, can you stay on watch here while I try to pick up Bruce's trail?”

“Of course, Captain, but that leaves you alone.”

“They're welcome to take a shot. They could have gone after me along with Nat if they wanted to. The police might be coming by. They're supposed to call first. Check _everybody_ ,” he told Thor.

“Did anybody call Pepper?” Tony asked. Shit. Everything hurt and nothing was staying in one place. Natasha, Clint off somewhere, Bruce, three more people dead _._

“I did,” Steve said. “Soon as I heard. She's still in Singapore—I know, I know.” He made a placating gesture. “Tony, _think_. She's safer there than here right now. Extra security is on the way, all people Natasha vetted. You kind of gave her a heart attack.”

“Yeah, bad habit.”

“Just don't do it again.”

He held up crossed fingers. “Promise, Cap.”

That got a tired smile. “I'll check in as soon as I find anything.” He put a phone on the bedside table. “Not as nice as the old one, but it'll do, I hope. JARVIS set it up.”

“Thanks.”

Thor stirred. “You look fatigued. I shall remain on guard outside.”

The room seemed to get much bigger and twenty degrees colder as soon as the door closed. It was a nice room, as these things went. He had woken up in a lot of worse places. Still, there was no getting around what it was, and where he was, and the fact that he couldn't do a damn thing for the time being other than stay right where he was and wait for his own brain to ambush him.

He could do underground if he had to, though it wasn't fun; could really deal remarkably well with a whole lot of things after the past couple of years, but hospitals took him right back to waking up that first time after... after everything was over, with his mind still full of fire and blood and _no fucking clue_ where he was. As panic attacks go? Pretty epic. Rhodey was going to take the episode to his grave, and it hadn't happened again... yet. But Tony had been pretty good at staying out of hospitals since then.

He picked up the phone and figured out a way to lean it against his braced wrist to type. Screw Rogers.

_JARVIS, take a look at the hospital records, make sure he didn't forget to tell me anything._

A few moments later the reply appeared. _His report of your condition appears to be accurate, as is his recommendation that you “stay put” and rest. Fluids are also recommended._

Smartass. _I'm a little worried about the reactor._ It looked fine. Felt like normal, so far as he could tell through the pain. Precision equipment, though, not actually intended to stop bullets.

_We shall run some tests as soon as possible, sir. In the meantime, rest._

_Do we know where Rhodey is right now?_

_North Africa, as of last check-in. Circumstantial evidence suggests that he is on a mission._

_See if you can get an update, let him know things are happening. Nothing on Bruce yet?_

_No sign at present._

Damn, damn, _damn_. He thought for a moment. _Run down the usual suspects, see if there's been anything strange going on with them._

_Shall I initiate activities against the Pentagon, sir?_

Tony rubbed his forehead. _No hostilities. Yet. See if you can find a window to peek into, but regular channels first. Ross probably uses Yahoo mail for government business._

_Indeed, sir._

He texted Pepper next. _Hey._

Her reply was almost instantaneous, which was nice. _Seriously you are TEXTING me????_

_Srsly._

_Where are you?_

_Hospital. Bored. How's Singapore?_

Long pause. He could picture her typing out and then erasing replies until she settled on, _Jesus._

_You could send me a picture, cheer me up._

_I'll head back now._

_No. Steve's right._

Nothing.

He added, _It'll be okay._ At least it hadn't been anything personal, right? Just someone out there killing Avengers.

 _Dammit,_ she sent finally.

_Miss you, too. Be careful._

God, he was tired. Blood loss sucked. He counted the stitches he could see in his arm and wondered where the rest of them were. After a while the phone buzzed again, JARVIS this time.

_Sir. You do need to sleep._

_Eh._ The room was too noisy, even with the door closed. People walked past outside, the guards talked to each other and to Thor, machinery hummed but they weren't _his_ machines.

_Call the Tower. Leave the line open. I will monitor the room and alert you should anything problematic develop._

_Thanks._

*

While he probed delicately for information on known hostile forces in the US government, JARVIS also watched. It was not often that he regretted his lack of physical extensions, that he wished for a different balance between agency and understanding, but he might have done so now. He watched.

Rather, _they_ watched. JARVIS 0 in Malibu kept guard over the sleeping house, over DUM-E and the others, the first and oldest. JARVIS1 rode over distant deserts with the Mk II, drastically altered from his original state before Tony... bequeathed... it to Lt. Colonel Rhodes, a decision JARVIS continued to question. The Tower was JARVIS2, folding the others back into himself as each iteration of the armor went into the world and met its end.

There were more of them now, since the Lausanne affair. They thought—he and Tony—that they had it figured out, that neither SHIELD nor anyone else would be shutting him down again, but they were not going to count on it. For the most part, the others slept. Tony had been unambiguous, even as JARVIS5-10 discovered things that SHIELD, the FBI, or the IRS might be interested in knowing: _Do not draw attention_. JARVIS had disobeyed that command to disarm Chaos, and now he watched.

He had watched all of them, during their times in the Tower, knew them to a depth that no SHIELD file could convey, in ways that no human mind could fathom. Knew them in each of their quantities, their measurements (an engineering tool, never forget that), their functions. Knew their habits, their patterns, their griefs and their secret names (knew about many kinds of armor).

He had watched Captain Rogers caress an old photograph as if it might crumble under his too-strong touch. Watched Clint stare unmoving at the silent city through the long hours of the night. Watched Natasha prowl the corners of her new home, test the limits of everything she touched. Watched indecision curl through Banner in waves, push him from the calm intensity of work through restlessness to near-panic. Watched Thor embrace a new world and noted how seldom he spoke of his old one.

He watched now, and explored the ways a limb of himself might take up residence in the hospital systems as he waited for Tony's breathing to shift from normal REM patterns to those that would indicate distress. He remembered.

_Mr. Stark, I'm going to be blunt. People have started asking questions about your loyalties._

_That,_ Steve had said, _is ridiculous._

_There you go, Nick, you gonna call Captain America a liar?_

_These are people who would like to know more about your consultancy projects._

_People? Lovely word, people, I adore people. And I have, in fact, filed reports. Voluminous ones, I'm told, I'm pretty sure that was the word. With pictures._

_They just want to take a look around at what you've been doing for us._

“ _They,” on the other hand, I am not so fond of. I know “they.” The answer is no._

_If you would be a little flexible on—_

_Over my dead body._

Two months had passed since that meeting. He remembered.

*

Clint left the hotel by the window and spent a few moments on the roof, watching traffic and thinking, putting himself in Natasha's mind as quarry—again. Last time, things had ended well.

He had checked the hospitals already; she hadn't turned up at any of them. As far as he knew, she didn't know anyone in the city, and SHIELD had no permanent local contacts. The number at the London office rang endlessly into nothing.

There wasn't much point in looking at the scene; the hit had been professional, they wouldn't be hanging around, and Natasha might have come out of the water anywhere at all, might have swum to shore or gotten hold of a boat. However. Wherever she had found land again, physically tough though she was, the season mattered. There were things she would have to do.

He took Steve's car and started with the churches nearest the waterfront, and went from there to the places where the homeless and drink-addled spent their cold nights. He didn't expect much, not as a stranger asking questions of their closely guarded community. He got a lot of close looks, a lot of speculative ones, but no one was foolish enough to try anything. He didn't find anything, either, but he was fishing in unfamiliar waters, setting several kinds of bait. He stayed on the move, checked in every couple of hours as arranged, and went back to Steve's room to catch a few hours sleep. He woke to the buzzing of the cheap phone and Steve's message.

_Well, shit._

He liked Bruce and his diffident competence, had even managed to get fond of Tony in the past six months. This changed pretty much everything, wasn't just SHIELD politics. He swept the room with practiced eyes, ensured that nothing had been left behind, and went out to find a new base of operations.

By evening, he still had no firm Natasha sightings—one might have been, maybe, a pale woman no one knew. What he did have was a tail of his own, as he made his way through the city's desperate echelons. He almost missed the figure that ducked back around a corner as Hawkeye went through his routine with another street dweller.

“Drugs, I'd betcha. Face like that won't last a week out 'ere,” the man predicted. He looked to be a veteran of many winters and more than a few controlled substances himself.

“When?” He shifted position just enough to keep an eye on that corner.

“Uh... don't know?”

Clint plucked a tenner from his pocket and started folding it into quarters. He already knew the layout of the streets around this abandoned store on the outskirts of the city—overall a prosperous place, but it had pockets of unpleasantness like all the rest. He could lose the fellow watching him without much trouble, but it might be better to keep him for a while.

His new best friend looked hopeful. “Couple hours ago, maybe. Supper crowd was clearing out. Just down the street a ways, behind that pub.”

“Thanks. You've been very helpful.” Clint handed over the bill and moved on. He was playing three-dimensional chess now against at least two other players in a city that he knew only in theory, and he felt better than he had in weeks.

If she was dead, there wouldn't be any need for them to shadow him. They were still on the job. Sucked to be them, since it meant they had time pressure. Nothing worse for setting up a hit than being told that you had to do it fast.

If anyone had noticed Natasha, it was because she wanted them to notice her. A whole day had passed; plenty of time for her to find equipment. She might know, or guess, that Clint was there; might not see that as a good thing, might wonder if they hadn't all turned on her. _Never I would never_ didn't mean much in their world. He found a doorway out of the wind, lit a cigarette but didn't smoke it, and watched the street for a few minutes. A couple of cars passed, and a trio of men arguing about football.

If he was right, his tail was now talking to the same old man he had just spoken with. And... now.

He stubbed out the cigarette and headed across the street at an angle toward the next doorway, saw someone on the street ahead of him—a couple—as he reached cover. Clint felt a moment's annoyance with himself for not having noticed them before, though he had known that someone would be out front of him, given the tail behind. This might be a rush job, but they weren't amateurs. He also wasn't happy with how many of them there had to be.

He was even less happy when a car passed him, moving too fast for the narrow street, and when it slowed down for the couple. Dark sedan, plates obscured by mud. Clint had driven a lot of cars like it. The engine revved, covering the sound of running feet for a moment, then the car turned a corner and was gone.

He needed to be where they were going. Clint moved out of the doorway before he could get pinned down there, gaze flicking up and down the street for anyone he needed to avoid shooting. The football fans were still in sight. There were three of the enemy—

A bullet ruffled his hair as he threw himself out into the open.

Make that four.

*

Bruce woke at full, startled alertness, and only years of practice kept him in his own shape. Deep breaths—cold, sterile air, without dust or any trace of scent. There had _been_ a smell, just for an instant—gas, something strong enough, fast enough, painless enough to knock him cold before the Hulk could surface.

Steve had told him to be careful. He hadn't really listened. Nothing touched the Hulk.

His mouth and eyes were painfully dry, and his head ached. Cold concrete underneath him, concrete all around, windowless and grey, the light faint and from high above. His clothes and everything else were missing; he was entirely naked but for the unyielding chill of a handcuff around his right hand. Seriously a _handcuff_ what were they?—he blinked.

Oh. There was a small hand attached to the other cuff, a child-sized form mostly hidden under a blanket and apparently asleep, but he could see a tumble of brown curls.

Bruce cleared his throat, but he couldn't quite keep his voice from shaking. “You know, most health insurance plans these days cover psychiatric care. You should look into that. You sick motherfuckers.”

No one answered.


	3. Reeling Shadows

Thor would be the first to admit that his knowledge of Midgardian affairs still had gaps. There were so _many_ of them—dozens of nations, thousands of cities, each with their own institutions, each of them in ceaseless conflict with one another, throwing up the occasional work of genius or madness. Nothing could be farther from his father's ordered and intensely personal—and static—hand over all of Asgard, and this chaotic magic was among the things he remained on Midgard to learn more of.

Asgard had no police. There were guards in peacetime and soldiers in wartime and adventurers who made or solved trouble when the mood took them, and there were judges, of course, but there was no standing body making sure that everyone (more or less) followed the rules (sort of). These officers were of a different mettle than SHIELD agents, and followed different rules, but many had acquitted themselves bravely during the invasion and the blackouts later that summer.

These two were at least polite, a young man and a gray-haired woman, and they explained their errand patiently and were finally granted entrance by the Tower security—those, Thor had no trouble understanding, although he was troubled by the absence of oath-taking.

“Mr... Odinsson, isn't it?” The senior of the pair turned to him.

“Indeed.” He offered her a slight inclination of his head, as a higher authority to a lesser, and permitted them entrance. From Thor's limited experience with injured mortals, Tony looked slightly improved.

“Mr. Stark.” The uniformed woman greeted him with a nod, and produced her badge. “Officer Boyle, and this is Officer Chang. I hope we've caught you at a good time.”

“I suppose it could be worse.”

“That's a pretty impressive array of speeding tickets you've acquired.”

“All paid.” Tony waved a hand. “Hard-nosed bad-assery and generally not-being-impressed duly noted. Can we get this over with?”

Thor watched the ritual unfold, somewhat different in reality than in the popular dramas. He studied their blurry pictures of the shooter, in case their paths should cross once more, and absented himself to check on Mr. Hogan.

Happy seemed glad of the company. “I suppose they'll be in here next.”

“A logical progression.” Thor looked him over dubiously. “Shall I inform them that you are not yet prepared to speak of the event?”

“No, it's no problem. Can't let the boss have all the fun.” His voice was weak, and there was more machinery in this room than the other, though it was difficult to see some of it beneath the masses of flowers; Hogan's years of service had earned him many friends in the company.

“We have not spoken of the incident,” Thor said.

“Guess it won't hurt to rehearse, eh? Not much to... say though. Was fast.”

“Not fast enough, thanks to your watchfulness. Had you not interposed yourself, I have no doubt that we should be in mourning today.” They were all so _fragile_.

“I don't even know what it was tipped me to the guy. That he didn't stop? Mostly people come into a warm place when they've been outside, they stop for a second. He bulled right on in.”

“Your instincts are commendable.”

“Maybe. He looked me right in the eye, and I couldn't tell you what he looked like.”

Thor frowned. That struck him as strange—not Hogan's failure of memory, under such unexpected strain, but that the killer would look at his victim directly. “You were the first target, then?”

“Far as I can tell. I don't remember hearing any other shots beforehand.”

Thor patted the man's shoulder. “You have excelled in your duty. Rest now, and I will see if they wish to speak with you.” He returned to Tony's room only to find the senior officer talking to someone on her phone while her junior fidgeted and couldn't decide where to look.

“Right,” she said, ending the call. “Well, I guess I have to apologize for taking up your time, Mr. Stark. Our perp just tried to take out another location with a bomb. Fortunately, he wasn't very _good_ at bombs.”

“You speak in the past tense,” Thor said.

“That I do. No other injuries, so good riddance.” She made a few notes. “And it looks like we can scratch any chance of a personal motive, which I'm sure comes as a relief. They found his blog. Real tin-foil-hat stuff from the sound of it.”

“Marvelous of him to make your job so easy,” Tony said.

“It's not much, but I'll take it. Thank you for your time, and we wish you a speedy recovery.”

“And here I thought you didn't like me.”

“You people are all demented,” she said, not unkindly. “But those aliens were assholes.” The two of them took their leave.

“Are you well?” Thor asked, concerned.

“Huh?” Tony's attention snapped back from the window. “View sucks. I'm fine. Watching yourself get shot is not as much fun as it sounds, even in shitty low-res. JARVIS, you got that video, right?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Possibly.” JARVIS sounded cautious.

“I suspect that I am not,” Thor said. “You disbelieve their tale? Are we to consider the police complicit in these attacks? Or dupes of those who are?”

“Could be either. Wondering how they got a solid ID that fast off a guy that blew himself to bits with a homemade bomb. Just a happy coincidence that it left his face intact? Either way, let's add our presumed-dead friend and anyone who looks attached to him to the watch list, and update Cap.”

Thor passed along his discussion with Happy. “If this was no mere mischance, then someone has gone to impressive effort to make it appear to be so.”

“Yep. Hey, JARVIS. Let's take the gloves off that search routine, while you're at it. Take a gander at the NYPD databanks.”

*

Being alone in the Tower was one of the creepiest things Steve had ever experienced—not that anyone was ever entirely alone in the Tower.

“Dr. Banner left here shortly after Thor did,” JARVIS said. “He appeared moderately agitated, explicable under the circumstances. He gave me no instructions before departing. Facial recognition routines are running against all available locales, though I fear I do not yet have the access SHIELD commands. I will alert you immediately should anything surface.”

“Thanks. Do you know if he still has that tracker Tony gave him?”

“He had it when he left here. It has not been activated.”

“Phone?” He knew it wasn't likely.

“Unavailable. Anyone with the audacity and resources to successfully kidnap Dr. Banner must be presumed to be reasonably intelligent, albeit very poor at long-term risk assessment.”

“Point taken.” He paced around the communal area. Even if it was a rare day that all of them were around, it shouldn't be this quiet. “So where do we start, then?”

“The number of people who fit that description is relatively small. General Ross, for one, appears to be attending a convention in the Caribbean at present. I am tracing the recent activities of other candidates on Mr. Stark's instructions.”

“You keeping an eye on him?”

“At all times, Captain. He is impatient and concerned, nothing worse.”

“Good.” He paced another circle. “This is _insane_.”

JARVIS paused. “I fear that I cannot render an opinion on that possibility.”

Steve smiled, a touch grimly, and did another turn around the room. “Do you... worry?”

“I do not. I am familiar with the concept, however.”

“Must be nice.” Steve checked the time again. “I'm going to make some calls.”

Since his revival, Steve had made the nodding acquaintance of a good many American military people. Some of them liked the idea of a returned Captain America better than others, and he knew for a fact that they didn't all get on with SHIELD, but _someone_ out there ought to know what was going on and why. He left a lot of messages and threw ideas at JARVIS in between.

“Once they got Bruce, what would they do with him? Kill him or keep him for something, right? Not for ransom. I mean, not that we wouldn't want him back, but there are easier targets.” If he was dead, all they could do was avenge him. “Assume they want to hang onto him. Even if it's not Ross, he can't be the only one who thinks along those lines. They wouldn't keep him in the city, too risky.” He thought about the cage, about Loki. “He couldn't be _on_ the helicarrier, could he? Could all of this be blind for them finally deciding that... that he's too big a liability?” For no reason at all, after everything Bruce had done to help over the summer?

“I do not have enough information to rule out that possibility, but it would be very far out of character for the director.”

Steve made a few more calls, left a few more messages, got a few more promised in return.

He was starting to wonder why no one had taken any shots at _him_ yet. Not that he was feeling slighted, exactly, but it seemed odd. _Assume they're not stupid, that there's a reason for doing it like this. What do we have, in their idea of a perfect world? Widow dead, Hawkeye neutralized, Tony dead, Bruce in their hands._ The recitation sparked pain in his heart, his throat. _Leaving Thor, and me._

Killing Thor would be a major undertaking, not to mention drawing certain retribution from Asgard. “Hilariously outgunned” had been a good way to put it.

Steve himself, not quite so difficult to kill, not quite such problematic consequences, but... still. He turned the question around from what the two of them might do to what they _couldn't_. He and Thor could deal out physical retribution, but they might be said to lack resources. Didn't have the training, the tools, or the blunt instrument of obscene amounts of money to find out who was behind this?

Scratch that, he _did_ feel slighted.

The update from Thor and Tony didn't make him feel any better.

“They may hope to get us off guard for another attempt,” he said. “Don't let that happen.”

“My vigilance shall be as the constant sun,” Thor promised. “Though I fear our friend little appreciates the effort.”

“He made it out of bed yet?”

“Twice.”

“Good. Don't tell him I said that,” Steve added. They wouldn't be his team if they did sane things like rest up after getting shot, and Tony was reckless but not stupid; he wouldn't subject his vanity to the risk that he might fall over in front of Thor if he wasn't ready to get up. “I'll let you know when I hear anything else. Hawkeye's been checking in, but nothing firm yet.”

It was evening before anyone got back to him, well after business hours.

“Mr. Rogers? Vic Franken here. Got your message earlier.”*

“General.” They had started to blur together; he flipped through windows on the screen until he found the right set of notes. Franken. They had met in person once, back in June, and the man had struck Steve favorably at the time. He was senior enough that Steve could feel confident that he wasn't being brushed off, whatever else was going on. “Thank you for calling. I hope—”

“I can understand your concern, given the way things fell out. I'd like to tender our apologies—bit of confusion over who was supposed to get in touch with you, fell through the cracks, and I can see how that must look, so—sorry, very sorry that happened, taking full responsibility for not keeping you in the loop.” Franken had a warm voice with a trace of southwestern accent.

“I just want to know what happened, sir.” Things did fall through the cracks sometimes; on the other hand, it was the easiest lie in the world. Franken was high-enough placed that Steve wouldn't be able to go over his head to look for corroboration. Was he right to be suspicious of _everyone_ right now? Natasha would nod.

“In the short form—SHIELD's been stood down. All operations ceased effective yesterday. Bit of organizational chaos, I'm sure you can imagine, but it's nothing more complicated than that.”

“Beg your pardon, sir, but that doesn't make a lot of sense. That's hundreds of people involved in dozens of operations around the world—who's taking over their areas of responsibility?”

“That's happening as we speak, and some of it's classified, but broadly speaking it'll be the CIA and the Army. We've got the personnel, we've got the training, and it simplifies things to have one less divisional hand in the pot.” Before Steve could disagree, he went on, “Now, as for how this affects the Avengers—”

“We are a private organization with no connection to SHIELD, sir.”

“Right, right. Fury made that clear.” Franken didn't sound entirely pleased. “They have been the main communications channel, though, previously speaking, and we'd like to make sure that those lines stay open in the future. You know your people, how they're likely to take all of these changes.”

That sounded like fishing. “I suppose so, sir, but it's not really for me to say. Black Widow's... on assignment right now.” _Wait—if operations are being handed over, he should know that I was with her in Edinburgh. That I am still supposed to be there, even if they don't know that she's missing. That stuff would be CIA probably, but if the Army is making a play to hold our leash instead of SHIELD,_ my _whereabouts should have been info for them... right? So either he never really talked to Fury or Fury didn't tell him?_ “I'm not actually sure where Hawkeye is. You may have heard that Mr. Stark is in the hospital at the moment.”

Franken grunted. “Heard about that. Hope it's not too serious.”

“Well, we're not entirely sure about that. I mean, we hope, but it's not a trivial injury.” It wasn't exactly a lie.

“Terrible, the things that happen these days. Give him my best if you see him. Knew his dad, back in the day. Good man.”

“If I do,” he laid careful emphasis on the if, “I'll do that.” _Does he actually think that was random?_ Steve wasn't any more inclined to count on that than Tony. _Or does he want me to think that? If it hadn't been for Nat, I—we—might have believed it. And he doesn't seem to know about her._

“And I hope _you'll_ continue to work with us, Captain, on any occasion when that might be necessary.”

“I hope so as well.” He put on his best earnest and innocent tone. “I _would_ like to talk to Director Fury, if you know where I might reach him.”

Franken gave a little snort. “Don't blame you. Afraid I can't help you with that, son, but if I hear from him I'll pass that along. In the meantime, if you have any questions or if anything comes up that you think we ought to be aware of, you can just call this number. Any time.”

“Thank you, sir. I'll do that.”

He ended the call and looked at the phone. “Is it me, or did that raise more questions than it answered?”

JARVIS' dry tone never changed. “I must agree with that assessment, Captain.”

“Do _you_ think he was telling the truth?”

“If he was not, the origin of what I fear we must now call a conspiracy lies at or near the Cabinet level. I shall add the general to the list of those under investigation.”

“Fury.”

“Indeed. Given how dear the Avengers Initiative is to him, and his penchant for hands-on engagement, it does seem unlikely that he would not have been in personal contact with any of you much earlier than this.”

“Unless he _can't_ contact us.” Which put the whole thing on yet another level of scary.

“Precisely. I have already taken the precaution of adding him to the recognition algorithms. I—Captain,” JARVIS performed the rare feat of interrupting himself. “I have received a pulse from Dr Banner's tracking device.”

Steve's heart jumped. “He's turned it on?”

“No. The device has been destroyed. It was designed to provide a location, should that happen.”

And if Tony had a bit of a _thing_ about people vanishing and their bodies never being recovered, he had come by that one honestly.

“Show me.”

JARVIS brought up the map. “The municipal incinerator for Dutchess County.”

Steve closed his eyes briefly. “Do me a favor, let them know I'm on my way.”

“At once, Captain. Shall I inform the others?”

He headed down to the garage at speed. “Yes. Everything. They should stay put for now, but they might come up with some ideas while I'm en route.”

*

The two of them had been on the hunt all day, and Rick was tired of this wild goose chase. The Widow's corpse had long since been moved out to sea by the currents, and even if she floated, no one would see her out there. However, as long as someone was still turning stones, they had to make sure—had to be prepared to ensure that the stone-turning stopped, lest someone find more than they ought.

Bloody policy directives, changing the rules every bloody week. No doubt it would be a simpler world without bloody SHIELD swanning about, cocking things up for everyone else—an organization no one had even heard of five years ago, at that, and yes, yes, SSR, long history of cooperation, hand of international alliance, and all the rest of it. More trouble than they were worth, at the end of it all.

Rick kept an eye on the streets and buildings around them as Jessa spoke in lilting accents to the latest derelict. None of them knew anything. This was a waste of time, out in the cold, sipping coffee that had gone lukewarm, and the cobbled old streets hadn't done his feet any kindnesses. Done; nothing. They moved on. An old woman with a shopping cart full of overstuffed trash bags gave them a wary glance and shuffled a few steps toward the nearest alley. Rick could whiff her at five meters, and he had to give Jessa credit for keeping her smile as she approached.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the message; the rest of them were catching up. At least they had a decent-sized crew, now that they had folded up the “arms dealer” identity that had drawn their quarry within reach. Just tidy up these loose ends and go home heroes. He glanced once again into the shadows, checked the alley behind his partner's latest interviewee, checked the roofs—you could never be too sure—before he took a couple of steps closer to let Jessa know that they could expect company soon.

The old woman flinched back at his sudden approach, half-turned, whipped back around and kicked Jessa's legs out from under her, then delivered a solid kick to her mid-section as she launched herself at Rick.

*

Clint squeezed off two shots, hit the ground and rolled into the inadequate shelter of a scooter chained to the lamp-post. A half-second later, he was back on his feet and zig-zagging down the alleyway, which had damn well better go where he wanted it to, fuck these old cities and their cow-path streets. The people gunning for him were behind him for the moment, and that was fine. He didn't give a damn about them. He wanted to know where that car was going.

The alley turned into a slightly wider alley, which probably qualified as a street since it was full of the tiny local cars. He heard noises above—just his luck—and ducked right as another bullet showered him with brick fragments. He tried to become one with the wall and glanced out into the open to see the street empty of movement in both directions. He looked up. Nothing moved there, either, but unless the guy up there was hopelessly stupid, he'd have an excellent shot when Clint broke cover.

The car he was tracking had vanished, and he had only instinct to go on. If they had been using the same path of inquiry that Clint had been, their goal would be the park another street up, if you could call a couple of empty lots full of rubbish and graffiti a park.

Light coming down the street—motorbike. Not exactly what he'd been hoping for. He could hear footsteps in the alley, coming after him. _You wouldn't be an Avenger if you ever did the smart thing, Barton_. He issued a mental apology, timed the motion, and sprinted for the insignificant cover offered by the moving vehicle. That lasted an entire two seconds while the driver hollered and veered the bike in a crazy wobble, and then one of the tires blew out.

The next shot punched through Clint's calf, but he was into the alley before it started to hurt, and then he heard someone ahead of him yell. Didn't sound like Natasha, but wherever she was, there was likely to be someone yelling, equally likely it would be their last breath. He fired at his pursuit a couple of times to keep them honest, gritted his teeth and sprinted.

There. In the park, two figures in motion—one of them rammed the other with a shopping cart, levered up over it into a flip he would recognize anywhere, even in the dark. _She's got this one._ Clint ducked left and kept the wall hard at hand, looking for more of them, for his rooftop friend with the long gun.

Breathe. Hint of movement up there, a glint of light on metal. Long shot for a pistol, even for him.

Headlights, a car nosing down the narrow street—same car? Closer.

He took one step away from the wall, watched the movement above as someone adjusted their position minutely, and fired twice.

The car came closer, too much glare now. The driver hit the gas and answered his question about who they were. He avoided being run down by at least two inches. The car had three people in it. Two of them piled out and headed for Natasha's side of the fight; the third got out more slowly. Clint heard more feet behind him, but the field was too crowded for shooting now. All of the tightening nightmare since Cap's phone call went out of him in forty-five seconds of distilled violence, and then only one of them was up and panting a little.

“Fucking _idiots_ ,” the man muttered through bloody lips. “Hope she kills you.”

Clint breathed out and went left. The man ducked, got the car between them. Buying time for their sniper, probably, and he _might_ not be dead up there, so Clint vaulted over the car and kept moving. His leg wasn't up to a chase, but a lunge and a twist sufficed to get a hand tangled in the man's jacket and pulled him down. No points for elegance.

“Who are you working for now?” the guy wanted to know, blocking Clint's punch with a grunt.

He was surprised enough to answer. “Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that?”

“You—” The guy landed a glancing blow, but Clint caught his arm and twisted, got on top of him, and what sounded at first like a laugh turned into a strangled curse. “Nobody ever trusted her. We were right about that. Guess you'll figure that out too late.”

“Who the hell is _we?_ You are an embarrassment.” Clint pulled harder on the captive arm, and the man went loose in his grip, but he wasn't taken in and kept up the pressure. “Wait, you trying to tell me you're _MI6?_ What'd they do, let the junior analysts out for a play date? I'm tempted to work you over now just for being stupid enough to start a gunfight _in the middle of fucking Edinburgh_. What's the Queen gonna think when the local PD pulls your wannabe asses in?”

“Laugh it up,” the man gritted. “Shoot you on sight.”

“For cleaning up _your_ goddamn mess?” The guy was eating a chunk of pavement at that point with Clint's knee in his back, and couldn't muster an intelligible reply.

“You done flirting?” Nat asked from the far side of the car. A pair of cuffs landed next to Clint.

“Yeah, I don't think he _like_ likes me.” He yanked off the man's jacket and cuffed him.

“Then let's go. I got what we need from the other guy.”

Clint rolled to his feet and tested his leg. “We should hand out buttons. 'I got my ass kicked by an Avenger.' It would totally be a thing. Did I mention it's nice to see you?”

“Later.” She led the way across the park, grabbed a bag from the shopping cart, and headed down the alley without looking back.

Clint heard sirens. “Fine, fine.” He followed her down the alley at a fast limp as she started stripping off bits of her disguise and pulling new things from the bag. Off went the bulky, smelly layers of tattered skirts and the scarf; on went a cheap leather jacket and a Hibs cap. She had darkened her skin and done a rough and ready bleach job on her hair. “It _is_ nice to see you, you know. And you not being dead. Where are we going?”

“I've got a bike down here. Unless you've got something better.”

“Not on hand. I do have some stuff to pick up, so head west.”

“Okay.” They reached the bike. “How bad is it?”

“The leg? I'll live. We can patch it up when we stop.”

“Good.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, leaving the sirens behind.

“So where are we going, after?” Clint asked

“London. To ask some questions.”


	4. Darkness Drops Again

One tried not to be angry, in Natasha's line of work. In a previous century they called it the Great Game, and it was blood sport, but a _sport_. You won or lost a round (or a pawn, or a queen), and didn't get too upset about it. Right now, there was a simmering fury at her core that she hadn't felt in years, and rather than tamp it down she fed it.

She could do that, she realized somewhere south of Carlisle, because of the team. Could be angry on her own behalf and on theirs, could give herself this—half luxury, half resource—because they were behind her. She didn't always like them, didn't always want to be around them, but she trusted them as she had not trusted anyone but Clint, in so very long. Together they were braided steel, stronger than any single strand.

They rode south in silence; after updating her on everyone else's troubles, Clint had been quiet. She hadn't apologized; he seemed to know better than to expect it. They had stopped for all of fifteen minutes at his room, enough time for him to bandage the wound in his calf and message Cap, and for the two of them to pack up what little gear he hadn't been carrying on him. That amounted to a change of clothes, a selection of identities, and his bow. From there they went to the airfield, careful to be seen along the way, laying a false trail before sending the jet back without them. Then they turned south, taking an indirect route.

It started raining. Natasha cursed, more at the loss of speed than the discomfort. Clint was warm and comfortable against her back; she thought he might be dozing. They were both exhausted, but she wanted to keep moving while they had the darkness. On the bright side, it should be easy to tell if anyone was following them. Their country road was almost deserted.

That Fury was missing both bothered and reassured her. Natasha had considered and discounted the possibility that this was his plan. Not because he wouldn't do it; she knew the depth of his pragmatism, the labyrinths of his preparations, the way few others did. He had created the Avengers, and she knew for a fact that he had plans that would destroy them if he thought it necessary, but she did not think he would have done it like this.

For one thing, Fury would have made certain of Steve first thing.

That said, if someone had gotten the drop on _him_ , the rest of them could hardly be blamed for having missed whatever warning signs might have been given. That someone had pulled the feat off spoke of resources, of long planning and iron determination.

Pity someone had wasted all that work.

She drove in the rain, and she planned, and gave no thought to which side of the ledger this was meant for.

*

Bruce's Portuguese was rusty, and it took most of the day to get the boy to speak at all. His name was Lucas, and he was nine years old and very thin. He did not know where he was or why he was there, and blank terror shone in his eyes at every movement, every sound, however soothing Bruce made his own voice. He had been there a week, he said, or at least he thought it had been that long since they grabbed him.

People were going to die for this.

They were going to die anyway, for Natasha and for Tony and whoever else—people who would do this would have more blood on their hands than Bruce knew about—but especially for this.

For the time being, however, the technique was grotesquely effective, and as captivity went, things could have been much worse. They didn't want to set him off, at least not yet.

Twice that day the heavy steel door opened. Bruce could see another door beyond it, an airlock system. Two men with guns would watch from the doorway while two others brought water and food. Everything so far had been bland, sustaining, and required no utensils—did they think he was Hannibal Lecter? They took blood and tissue samples and measurements.

Same old, same old.

They were all masked and gloved, sterile presences, all men. The armed ones at least were military in bearing; the others were harder to fathom. None of them spoke; instruction came through a speaker somewhere in the ceiling. Bruce thought that the whole place might be underground. The lights never went off entirely, but dimmed enough for the two of them to sleep.

None of the others spoke to Lucas at all. Bruce tried to, offered what halting apology and reassurance he could, explained what they were doing and groped toward the why though his insufficient vocabulary. There was no point in trying not to alarm the boy.

Bruce couldn't be certain what would happen if he let the Other Guy free. Even if he could be certain that the Hulk wouldn't kill Lucas, he had no illusions about what their captors would do. He could wait... a little while. Until whoever held them wanted a different set of tests, at least.

_I have some friends. They'll come and find us._

_How?_

He lay in the semi-darkness and thought about the years he had spent running, about the taste of metal, about trust and loss. They might be too late, of course, but he had no doubt at all that they would come, and he turned that over in his mind like something he had found on a seashore, studying its gleaming irregularities, its unexpected perfections. They would look for him, whoever of them was left to do so, with or without a reason to hope.

_I don't know. But they will._

*

Amid reeking trucks in the parking lot, the message from Clint was a relief that sent Steve into momentary free-fall.

 _Package acquired intact_.

 _Thank God, thank God,_ he thought. It lasted only a moment, of course, and then he was back to _Please, let there be another._ The first two of the essential prayers.

Hours of searching and patient interviews later, he found nothing at the incinerator. He wasn't entirely sure what he ought to look for, but it wasn't the first time the staff had faced this possibility, and they were anxious and helpful. They found no sign of human remains, let alone Hulk ones, if that was even possible. He had seen the amount of punishment that body could absorb.

Steve still found it difficult to talk to Bruce without wanting to apologize first for his own unintended and horrific legacy. Bruce had not given up resistance to the idea of the Hulk as a member of the team. Despite that, a fragile trust had grown between them, and he would _not_ fail it. He watched the sun come up and called the others.

“Nothing we can really go on here,” he said. “But a direction, maybe—the trucks that came in yesterday were picking up at places off the highway, north of the city. It might mean that they went this way after they grabbed him—it would make sense, fast exit and lots of nothing up here to disappear in.”

“It's something,” Tony said. “I'll take a look. Any word from Steed and Peel?”

“They have a lead they're following, but no new details. Tony, how many contacts do you still have in the military? That you're on good terms with, I mean.”

“Uh... not a lot? Kind of nuked those bridges a while back.”

“See if they'll say anything about what's going on, where it came from and what the reaction is. Even if it's just bitching, it might give us something more to go on.” _We need some allies, dammit._ “And find out if anyone's heard from Nick.”

“You want me to pick up some milk, too? Bet you anything he's behind this.”

“I'll take that bet. Thor, how you holding up?”

“Only hoping that we will soon flush this foe from the shadows, that he may be dealt with fittingly.”

“I think we'll all be happy about that.” Steve would just about give an arm for something to hit. “Heading in now, we'll talk when I get back.” Secure lines or not, he didn't feel good about the phones right now.

They had a sense, now, of the _who_ and the _how_ and the _why_. What were they going to do about it, Steve didn't have the faintest idea. Maybe he—they—had been a little naïve, thinking that the world as it was today would let them go about their business, might even be grateful for the help once in a while. The Avengers hadn't asked them for anything (aside from when Tony wanted them to rename Central Park).

But there were people who wouldn't accept that. Who would, perhaps, resent things. Such as being placed in a situation in which they had been forced to make a horrible decision, a decision that would—that _ought to_ —haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Such as having it proven to them not that they had been wrong, but that their decision—their power—had been _irrelevant_.

*

Tony tried. They'd gotten him a proper tablet to work on, so he kept notes, in case anyone asked him about it later: he had actually _tried_ to be good about this. He took his meds (they had cut off the good stuff), drank a mind-boggling amount of restorative fluids (ginger ale was off the mixer list forever), and didn't bitch nearly as much as he could have. What he couldn't do, no matter how many times Thor aimed that well-meaning frown at him, was sleep.

Not well, anyway.

 _watched and couldn't or_ didn't _please couldn't move and Yinsen screamed and screamed and_

Midnight. The night hours passed at a painful crawl while they waited to hear more from Steve.

Was Bruce awake, somewhere?

Tony got up a few more times, just in case they had to assemble after all. The armor could work around the wrist brace, wouldn't be the first time, and JARVIS could tune the left leg to take some weight off it if he had to stand for long. That one had most of the stitches, he must have landed on somebody's coffee mug when he hit the floor, way to go Happy _no really._ Oh, and it kinda hurt to breathe. He kept thinking he saw things move along the walls, then wondered if his brain was trying to trick him into blinking, and what he would see when he opened his eyes.

_Manhattan dissolved into white light and_

2 a.m. On a scale of one to facing-down-Loki, he _really_ wanted a drink, and he missed California— wounded-animal instincts, looking for a safe place to den up and heal. He used to wake up in the cave thinking he could smell the ocean, and eventually couldn't tell if he was remembering anything correctly at all.

Don't think about that.

They wouldn't _hurt_ Banner, right? Because that tended to lead to the Hulk. Right.

Unless they had killed him already.

_shrieks behind the walls of burning Gulmira and_

4 a.m. Fuck it.

He skipped the next round of pills in favor of a clear(ish) head, asked JARVIS for some music and spent two hours working, interrupted by Steve's crack of dawn call. A half hour later, he was rewarded by a message in an anonymous (so very, very anonymous) command line window.

 _FriskyIvan: I am gonna kill you._ The line remained visible for ten seconds, then it was gone.

Tony grinned, just a little.

_BigGun: You knew it was me._

_FI: This thing is secure, I take it._

_BG: Cozy little dark network. Even J can't read it._

_Awesome. Great. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?_

_I wish I knew, Buttercup. Anybody shooting at you?_

_Yesterday, yes. Today, no._

_Brass told you anything about SHIELD?_

_Memo got to me this morning. They're out Army's in. Anything more is need to know._

_Huh. I'm fine, by the way, thanks for asking._

_You're always fine._

_Of course I am, I'm me. D'you know Gen. Franken at all?_

_Not personally. Heard the name, he's come sniffing around the Machine a couple of times._ The Air Force liked to protect its special toy from any possibility of poaching from the other branches. _You know he's short-listed for SecDef?_

 _Of course._ Tony had not known any such thing. Turned out that telling the entire military establishment to suck you got you disinvited to their gossip sessions. He settled the pillows into a better position behind him. _Listen up now, been a busy couple days._ For a few minutes after he finished, the terminal showed nothing.

_FI: Fuck._

_Eloquently put as ever._

_What do you need?_

Cloning Rhodes ten or twelves times for starters, which would require a time machine, and...

_Scratch that, why do I even ask these questions. I gotta be in DC today for debrief, but I'll stick close—won't take me long to get up there if you need me. You TELL ME me what's going on. BEFORE it blows up! Got that? You need backup or a distraction or whatever._

Once in a while, Tony suspected that he really _was_ the luckiest son of a bitch. _Kisses._

_Jackass._

It should have made him feel better. It did make him feel better. A little.

It was only 6:30. He got gotten about two hours of sleep in the course of the night. It would be another three or four before anyone he could think of talking to would be answering their phone—most of them were on the other coast. JARVIS was already working his stealthy electronic wiles on the Pentagon records. So Tony had nothing in particular to do night now, and normally this kind of schedule wouldn't throw him at all, but, well... blood loss and so forth. His eyes closed.

_Pepper shattered into blood and bones and_

_street cars people vanished into the wall of flame and_

“Fuck. This.”

The machinery didn't answer, but either the walls moved or he was starting to lose it. Deep breaths. Ouch.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, get your rear in gear. Find whoever I need to talk to on our way out the door. We're leaving.” The Tower might not be any better, but it sure as hell couldn't be any worse.

Twenty minutes later, Tony was dressed (he could take out his own IV thank you, he'd done way worse) and a doctor was conveying _My God, you're an idiot_ with a subtle movement of her mouth as she looked over the sheet on the wall. “I strongly advise against it. Everything appears all right so far, but there are so many—”

“Things I don't care about, including this conversation.”

“I understand that, but we would like to keep you a bit longer for observation, and maybe run some tests later this morning. Is your blood pressure always like this?”

“Must be you, sugar.”

“Right.” The doctor raised an eyebrow and wrote something down on her log sheet. “You have a nice day, then. I'll have them start your discharge paperwork.” She stalked off.

Thor frowned. “It speaks ill of a man to treat with disrespect those who only wish to help him.”

“You should see me on a bad day. Come on. If there's actual paper involved they can fax it or send it by pigeon.”

There was the whole three-ring circus of security people to drag along with them, of course, and okay, it gave him an excuse to move slowly, but this was exactly how Tony had never wanted to live his life, ever, so they had to fix this problem soon. They made it down to the lobby and hung around getting stared at while two of the team went for the car. Thor's glare at least made sure that everyone else kept their distance. Tony just wanted to get back to the Tower, get his head sorted out, make a few calls, sit down with Cap and Thor and figure out who they were going to _destroy_ for this—

His phone buzzed with a message. JARVIS. Urgent. He called the Tower with a sigh.

“Now wh—”

“Sir, I have some bad news. The FBI's Cyber Crime division has just issued a warrant for your arrest in connection with the events of the summer blackouts. I expect their agents are en route now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference Steve makes to essential prayers comes to me from Anne Lamott.


	5. Vexed to Nightmare

Tony spent four entire seconds speechless. “What the fuck. I have an air-tight alibi. I was on another planet _._ With witnesses!”

“Sir. Some of those events occurred after your return. In particular—”

“Right. That.” Damn it, Bruce... not that Tony would have made a different call, but shutting down the entire power grid? Not subtle, man. He ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Okay. Total lockdown, here and Malibu. We don't have any projects stored on Stark Industries property, do we?”

“Not since Stane, sir.”

“Good.” Well, this was kind of surreal. He had never actually expected to have to do this, to be alive when it happened. “Protocol 1216. As of now.”

“ _Sir!_ Is that—”

“Do not _argue_ with me, JARVIS. You will be fine. I will be fine. Confirm, dammit.”

Thor gave him a puzzled look; Tony shook his head and waved them all off as he paced.

There was a note in JARVIS's voice he had never heard before. “Protocol confirmed and operational.” Grief, perhaps.

“Think of it as taking off the training wheels. What about Pepper?”

“She has been designated a 'person of interest,' along with Doctor Banner. No additional warrants have been filed.”

“Thanks.” It wasn't as if he had never been arrested before; he had just always been in too much of an altered state of mind to notice procedural specifics. This one was probably not going to be settled by greasing the right palms, though. He hadn't even gotten laid. Never mind. “How much time do we have?” He wandered over to the windows near the main door and glanced out.

“Given traffic conditions, perhaps ten minutes.”

He could not afford to get arrested right now. Being stuck in a cell would make him an awfully easy target, which might be the point. Until they actually served the warrant he wasn't a fugitive, though, right? So he just had to get back to the Tower without encountering any federal agents—that might be a little bit difficult—and call _all_ of his lawyers.

The car pulled up outside. Finally.

The car that had _his name_ on it.

“Changed my mind, let's walk,” Tony said to anyone who happened to be listening, and headed for the door. A bright, crisp October morning awaited, full of car horns and madly weaving cyclists and _air_. Getting out of that room was the best idea he had ever had. He ignored a wave of confused questions from the security folks and thanked God for New Yorkers, unimpressed as ever by celebrity. “How did you find out about this?” he asked JARVIS.

“You did suggest that I take the gloves off, sir.”

“Good idea. They show up at the Tower yet?”

“I expect them at any moment. Communications may be inconvenienced for the duration. I will endeavor not to hurt anyone.”

Tony grinned despite himself. This was... well, all right, this sucked, but it was going to be interesting. “Appreciate that. Hey, Thor, could you... try to look shorter, or something?”

“I don't understand this request. What has happened?”

“Right. Time for a crash course in Earth law.” They walked—slowly, because they had to, though it was driving him crazy—and left the hospital's immediate environs behind while he talked.

Thor listened and shook his head a lot. “Should you stand in need of a champion, of course any of us would be honored to so serve.”

“We don't really do that here, but I guess a character witness or two might come in handy. Right now, I want to—” His phone rang. “Answer the phone, which is my job now I guess. Hello?”

“Tony, where the hell are you?”

“Uh... hi, Pepper. I'm great. How are you?”

“ _Where_ , not _how_. I have two hospital people waving paperwork at me—you left your watch here—and a very polite gentleman from the FBI who would like to know your current whereabouts. What the hell have you done now?”

“I hate that watch. Uh... where are you, then, exactly?”

“Where I was for some reason expecting to find _you_.”

He managed not to walk into a telephone pole. “You're supposed to be in Singapore.”

“Excuse me—yes, thank you, no, I don't—one moment, all right?” she said to someone else, and sighed. “Two things, Tony. One, and we have talked about this and I will give you a pass just this once because you were probably still doped up, you do _not_ tell me what to do 'for my own safety.' We are not doing that. Two, if you are actually letting _Steve Rogers_ tell you what to do without arguing, something is horribly wrong.”

Tony could hear the clack of her heels over the phone, so yes, she was annoyed. “Noted, noted. Have I told you lately that you're perfect?” A small icon flashed to life on his phone; someone was trying to trace him. Good luck with that, assholes. JARVIS still had his back.

“You are not going to—oh, thank God.” This sigh sounded relieved.

“What?”

“Sanity approaches. I thought Steve said Natasha was in Scotland?”

He stopped walking. “She... is?” _Steve said they were following up on a lead, that was only two hours ago._ “Pepper? Pepper, _don't!_ ” He didn't hear what she said because he turned around and started running, stumbled right away because _ow_ , and didn't even mind when Thor grabbed his arm. “Back to the hospital, now.”

Thor didn't waste time with questions but readied Mjolnir. Less than a minute later they crashed through what remained of the hospital lobby windows. Someone else had already taken most of them out. Inside, panicking people everywhere, some of them in wheelchairs or otherwise slowed.

He got one quick look around before Thor landed on the reception desk. The lobby was a long rectangle broken up by the desk in the middle, against the back wall, clusters of stiff-looking chairs out front, and a bank of elevators off to the far right. Halls led back into the building on both sides of the desk. Four groups of people had taken up positions around the lobby.

One group huddled behind the desk: Pepper, two men he recognized as part of her security team, and two panicking receptionists. Another bunch crouched behind an overturned couch to the left, their attention on the desk; two men and two women in dark jackets, all armed, but nobody he would have looked twice at on the street. Three more man had planted themselves in the mouth of a hallway on the far side of the lobby; with them, Tony spotted a flash of red, a woman wearing black. That group was watching two _other_ men crouched in their own hallway not far from the desk.

All four groups stared at Thor.

“Lay down your arms,” he instructed them, tapping Mjolnir against his palm meaningfully. “And we shall resolve this without bloodshed.”

“What the hell happened?” Tony asked as he hit the floor behind the desk.

“Those two are FBI,” Pepper said, glancing toward the duo taking cover in the hall. “The others showed up while I was talking to you—they seem to be after the _agents_...?”

“Nice.” _Enormous PR disaster in the making, with bonus possibility of tagging me in the confusion._ Bless Cap and his obsessive training schedule; they knew this stuff cold. “Those guys on the left first, and don't be too gentle, they brought spares.” He risked a glance around the edge of the desk, toward the other four. The civilians had cleared out. The redhead's lips moved, and her hand. “Thor? Go.”

An instant before the four could start shooting, Thor bellowed and leaped, one of those insane Asgardian jumps that cleared half the room, and laid into them—he dropped the hammer first, so he wasn't planning to kill anyone.

“Once that side of the room is clear, get Pepper out,” Tony started saying to one of the security team. He was still keeping half an eye on Red, so he saw her stand up from her crouch. She pulled something out of her coat pocket, about the size and shape of a phone, and pointed it at Thor just as he knocked down the last of that bunch of attackers and turned toward her group. The thing made a low thrumming sound, almost inaudible. Thor's astonished expression would have been funny if not for the fact that he collapsed face-down a second later. The lights went out. “Shit.”

“I hope you have a plan B,” Pepper said, white-faced.

“Marry me.”

“ _What?”_

“Not right this minute. Just throwing it out there. Uh, plan B.” Get killed, probably? He took another glance and saw Thor get far enough up to throw Mjolnir at the woman. Not much of a throw, it took out some potted plants and a part of a wall before he wobbled and went down again. Red didn't seem fazed, conferred with her two followers.

Two? One of them had gone missing. The two who were left concentrated on the FBI position. Red looked liked she was getting ready to move.

“Take this.” Pepper shoved a gun into Tony's hand.

He blinked at her and took it, gritted his teeth against the expected jar to his wrist and fired over the desk. He missed; Red flinched but kept moving toward Thor, a figure of incongruous grace as she raised her odd little weapon.

Tony took a moment to aim this time and put a bullet through her knee, which put her down behind a little seating arrangement—it was slightly better than nothing, enough that he managed not to get shot getting over there. Cap was going to yell at him. More shots from the desk behind him, the security guys were earning their bonus and providing him some cover. Red sat up very straight, her back to a chair leg and the little gun, or whatever it was, clutched in her hand.

“Put that thing down,” he told her, though the effect was kind of spoiled when he ducked a stray shot. Close up, the woman did look like Natasha—enough to mislead a casual acquaintance on first sight—and she was smiling more than anyone ought to under the circumstances.

“You thought us dead who only slept,” she said. “We shall never be destroyed, and we shall have our—” A faint, muffled thump cut her off. Her eyes glazed over; her head lolled. The back of her skull had gone a bit concave, although nothing had come anywhere near her to cause it.

“Well, that's _just_ who this party was missing. Nice to see they've upgraded from cyanide, anyway.”

*

Clint and Natasha spent most of the daylight hours holed up, resting in shifts and running occasional errands. The stillness and quiet felt pleasant; he didn't worry much. By evening Natasha had changed her appearance again—short, spiky blonde hair, heavy makeup, some strategic padding. Clint had made less drastic adjustments, mainly in darker hair and business casual clothes. The pair of them looked dreadfully tacky. They made some changes to the bike's license plate, and picked up a few pieces of equipment they could jury-rig into more useful things.

It was almost dark enough to leave when Clint got a message from Cap, and his stifled laughter woke Natasha.

“Sorry. They might have Banner somewhere north of New York.”

“Hysterical.” She raised an eyebrow.

“That's not the funny part. Someone sicced the FBI on Stark, then sent someone who looks like you to take out the agents that showed up to collect him. Shot up a hospital. They had a weapon that took down Thor, and they might have been HYDRA. Wait, that doesn't make any sense? They can't be trying to implicate Stark _and_ kill him.”

She stared at him for a moment. “You have a strange sense of humor. If they were the only ones who walked away, it might be hard to say who killed who, after.”

“Maybe we shouldn't go back.” What a fucking mess.

Natasha shook her head. “We're going back. Tonight. Tomorrow, at the latest.”

“You're that sure?” Clint put the phone away.

“I will be. Just a question of which hand is guiding the other. You ready?”

“Born ready.” He smirked at her. They both knew the property in question, allowing for a certain amount of disinformation—to be fair, they knew about dozens of such properties. Such were the games assassins played with world leaders, things to which Fury turned his blind side.

They packed up and headed southeast. Clint drove. The rain tapered to a drizzle, then a mist; the bike thrummed beneath him. He was cold and damp and his leg really hurt, and he felt better than he had in months.

Getting there was easy. Getting in was—oh, God, it was so much easier than it should have been. A dozen cars waiting sedately on the drive said that the place had company. Clint was willing to bet the visitors were to do with all the trouble he and Nat had caused. The house was packed with plainclothes security, every last one of them jumping at shadows. It was child's play for Clint to draw their attention over _here_ when it really should have been _there_. The glimpse he caught of Nat's smile said that she was going to laugh herself sick over this later. _The dreaded Black Widow_ —those agents in Edinburgh had probably made the whole thing sound a lot hairier than it had been.

Clint watched her go in, her hair slicked back out of her eyes, makeup gone, all focus and deadly intent, and found a point from which he could cause some trouble. These people wanted the Avengers as enemies? They were going to get just that.

And if they thought you were trying to get inside, it usually didn't occur to them that you already were.

*

“The Avengers Initiative was a terrible idea, that's the simple truth,” said Councilor Laney. Her glance raked the long table. The lot of them might be terrified incompetents, little better than children, but at the moment they were terrified of _her_. She took a sip of water and made them wait a moment before she continued. “Director Fury has lived the game too long. He has forgotten that there are lives and more at stake, not his whimsical notion of honor.”

Indistinct murmurs and cautious assent filled the silence. That was better than the fearful nattering that had preceded her announcement.

“We have the technology and the organizational knowledge to carry on the job of protecting this planet, and this nation, without placing our hopes on a half dozen loose cannons with questionable loyalties. The SSR was a useful wartime collaboration, but it's been nearly seventy years. We can stand on our own. Better not to rely on others—who have moreover proven themselves unstable and unreliable—against enemies of the caliber we now know exist.”

More muttering testified to stronger agreement until one hand half-raised, one voice spoke in question. “And Fury?”

The speaker's neighbor on the left leaned away a half inch.

Candace bent her un-smile toward the doubter. “He is, when all is said and done, only one man. He serves his government.”

“And where might he be now serving it, then?”

“His present whereabouts are not a matter of concern.”

“I beg to differ, Councilor.”

“Beg all you like.” A note of anger entered her voice and vanished as quickly. “This is an advisory session, not a request for approval. Nick Fury, SHIELD, and those members of the Avengers who are not actively a threat are, as of yesterday, irrelevant. SHIELD did nothing while the most potent weapon that has ever been known to exist walked away from us. We're fortunate to have more than one avenue of investigation, and I am pleased to say that the work has already borne fruit.”

A new voice spoke up. “I'm afraid I don't entirely follow.” Her opponent had at least one supporter.

She clung to patience. “The Tesseract spent many years on this world before SHIELD acquired it—and lost it again. Some of the greatest minds in human history have worked on it. That they were not always on the right _side_ of history is regrettable, but their knowledge has proven invaluable.”

“And what... fruit, then, are we likely to see?”

“We stand prepared to meet any threat. Asgard included. You are welcome to stay for the demonstration.”

The muttering became surprised, perhaps shocked.

“Yes, Councilor, I think we should do that.”

“Very well, then.” She stood, and they followed her lead. On the way, the night security chief fell into step beside her. “What is it now? I am tired of these phantom disturbances.”

“It might be for the best if everyone gets down to the basement, ma'am. We've had alarms at three of the windows, and—”

“Are those the same three window alarms that you earlier told me had been set off by our own people?” Her voice could have etched steel.

“No, ma'am. Excuse me, ma'am.” He raised a hand to his earpiece. “Also, the east end of the garage is on fire.”

*

Natasha put her back to the wall long enough to catch her breath, and for a quick series of exercises that pushed awareness of the pain in her arm out of mind. She suspected that it was broken. That was one agent who wouldn't know what to do with his nights off for a few weeks, assuming he regained consciousness.

Fierce, bright joy filled her as the pain receded—the joy of _being_ , of owning herself. There was the waiting, and the acting. She used to think that she liked the waiting, liked the slow draw of the net around her prey, but this was better. Because she knew why, now? Because there was a reason for all of it, not money, not survival, but something better?

Too many earnest speeches from Steve, perhaps. She laughed at herself, soft and deep in her throat, and moved on. She needed to get back up to ground level before these morons got organized, she needed—that.

An _un_ guarded stair would have been better, but she would take this one. She heard them murmuring, a faint static crackle of updates from elsewhere on the grounds. Three of them stood in her way, with her not-so-good arm and pursuit only a minute behind her, but it was only a matter of reflexes, and hers were always better. Always. Like being in flight herself, transmuted, her consciousness at once a flicker of thrown steel, two precise shots, a whirl of motion. She retrieved her blade and moved on. In the back of her awareness like an ember, protected, the knowledge of what she had found. The stairs under her feet.

More guards, and over all of it the sudden whoop of fire alarms. The floor shuddered. No points for subtlety, Hawkeye. She drove her fist into the first guard's throat and left him on the floor. Distant sound of another explosion. Footsteps on the stairs. More of them down the hall. She smelled smoke and heard distant gunshots, and she was only thirty feet from the windows. She let herself sway for a moment and clutched at her arm, stumbled into the wall and saw one of the remaining guards waver. It took a steady mind to shoot someone who was already wounded, especially when they were wearing your uniform, but really, he should have. He looked so surprised when he went down. She had two bullets left.

That left one guard, backing away from her as fast as he could, and she didn't particularly care about him; she had a clear run at an exit. Given that the building was on fire, no one was going to pay much attention to another window opening, but she broke a couple more along the way, just in case someone on the roof was still both in position and able to hear orders.

Outside was almost as noisy, and a bit too full of people. Floodlights on the walls cast merciless light; the fire wasn't big enough to compete yet. She kept tight to the wall. Sirens and flashing lights on the drive—quick response. She searched the darkness for a moment. Clint knew the building layout as well as she did, should know where she might come up from her search.

A car flashed its lights in the distance, a code Natasha knew. One of the _police_ cars. She supposed she couldn't begrudge Clint his desire to fuck these people up after the past couple of days. Still, she had hoped that he would be closer to the house. She set off in a zig-zag course, arm held tight to her side. To her right she saw someone with an arrow shaft in his shoulder.

Fifteen meters to go. Clint was on the roof of the car. She saw the flash of his teeth as he smiled, drew and loosed. Ten meters. Draw, loose.

She threw herself into the car. He dropped into the driver's seat, and they took off across the grass, weaving through the other emergency vehicles.

“I thought,” she panted, “that we talked about waiting until I'm out of the building to burn it down.”

It had been a long time since she heard him laugh like that. “You got it?”

“I got more than enough.”

“Then let's go home.”

*

Steve Rogers was about as unhappy as he had ever been, but he had to admit that it felt good to be back in the Tower, good to be with the others again, even if they had had to sneak in with JARVIS's help. The elevator felt safe, although Thor's weight bore down hard on Steve's shoulder. None of them had spoken much since Steve met up with them, other than Thor's assertion that he believed himself in no mortal danger. Pepper's eyes and mouth were hard enough to remind him of Peggy. Tony was so quiet that Steve suspected it was pride and not much else keeping him on his feet.

Roughly a hundred FBI agents were camped around and inside the building.

Steve felt a shred of sympathy for them, for men on the ground with ridiculous orders to carry out. So far, only passive defenses had been engaged, but those meant that the agents couldn't make the security cameras, elevators, or most of the doors in the Tower work. They couldn't touch JARVIS at all. They couldn't cut the building power because of the arc reactor, and hardly anyone but Tony understood how it worked and was willing to go near it. They couldn't get into the sensitive workshop floors with anything less than a nuke. JARVIS said that they had searched the penthouse and hadn't found anything but a couple of tablets, which the AI had wiped. They had been reduced to waiting and trying to look busy, so he felt sorry for them, but not much. They were almost certainly having a better day than Steve was.

He winced again at the thought of the rest of them just leaving the scene at the hospital like that (and also about the whole _stealing a car_ thing, though he hadn't actually been surprised, and Tony had sworn that he would replace it as soon as he could access his money again). Steve _knew_ it would have been a mess to sort out the fight's aftermath with the authorities. Would have been just what their enemies wanted, would have undoubtedly landed Tony in jail and tied the rest of them down for hours at least, answering questions and God knew what else. They had more urgent priorities than PR right now.

Unknown to any of the watching agents, the elevator headed up to the penthouse,

They stopped, and the elevator doors opened on the familiar windowed vista, still only early afternoon somehow, and a tall figure draped in black.


	6. Innocence Drowned

Sometimes Nick thought it was a real pity that Howard was dead. Would have done the bastard good to see that skinny boy with his shock of dark hair and his mother's eyes now, a little pale but rock-steady, with a gun pointed at Nick.

“God damn it,” Tony said. “Again? Really? I thought that latest security upgrade was going to work.”

JARVIS said, “Mr. Fury is here with my knowledge and permission, sir. For a change. I might add that I recommended that he declare his presence at once, and keep his hands in plain sight, though he appears to have disregarded the latter suggestion. I should also point out that while New York state has no 'castle doctrine' per se, given the events of the past forty-eight hours, you might reasonably claim to have been in fear for your life should you decide such action is warranted.”

Nick didn't blink. He was famous for not blinking.

“Thanks. I think,” Tony said. “That doesn't tell me why he's _here_.”

Nick smiled. “Since we get along so well, I figured this was the last place anyone might be looking for me. You gonna shoot me, or you in enough trouble right now?”

“Thinking about it.” Tony stepped out of the elevator. “Thor, how you doing?”

“The discomfort is bearable, friends, and whatever this tale is, I very much wish to hear it.”

“The couch,” Pepper suggested, and it sounded like the echo of an argument. “I'll get the first aid stuff. If you shoot anyone, watch the sculptures please.”

Nick should have tried harder to hire that woman after the Stane business.

“If you would, Director,” Steve said, politely enough. “I'm sure we're all interested in whatever explanations you can provide.” He helped Thor over to the couch; he settled there with Mjolnir on the floor at his feet. Rogers remained standing nearby. That left him on Nick's blind side, from which he understood that they were none of them feeling accommodating.

“And if you're going to tell us that the World Security Council has lost their collective shit, we figured that much out ourselves,” Stark said.

Nick clasped his hands behind his back, deliberate and easy. “In that case, you know almost as much as I do. There wasn't much warning before it all hit the fan.”

“But there _was_ warning,” Steve said, not quite a question.

“I had some idea they were up to something, the lengths they were willing to go to. Didn't think it prudent to wait for them to come get me. Shut down the systems that they shouldn't have access to and got out.” It had taken him two days to get to New York.

“And the rest of SHIELD?”

“Most of them are being reassigned to other agencies. The ones with high enough clearance levels to be considered a danger have either gone to ground or are in custody.”

“And you've been doing what, exactly, in the meantime?”

“Picking my battles, Captain.” The room was full of glances he could not read, and that was a pain in the ass, but Nick could hardly complain—he had worked hard for this, and succeeded better than he had hoped.

Tony put the gun away, but said, “You know what? I am not buying this. Two months ago you were chewing me out on behalf of your superiors, you might remember that? About how we should all be a little more _flexible_. Now you're telling us they got the drop on you? Escaped by the skin of your teeth, with oh how strange, just enough time to protect all of your most vital secrets while those _outside_ SHIELD who know about those get knocked off? Somebody almost killed Thor today. The only weapons that can give an Asgardian so much as a papercut are SHIELD's.”

“We had a security leak earlier this year,” Nick reminded them.

“And I never got a thank-you card.”

Steve sighed.

Nick managed not to do the same. “We have been trying to trace the leaked material since then.”

“And you never noticed that it went straight to your _bosses?_ ” Tony sounded incredulous. “You know, it's not the lying as such that I mind, it's the bald-faced attempts at manipulation. For future reference.”

“We didn't have proof.”

Thor growled. “And so you thought to snare them in their own net, I suppose? You keep your secrets close, and ever have, but to be left in the dark as bait _?_ ” He levered himself upright. “I expected better.”

“I understand that. I can assure you that this... situation was never the intent.”

“Where have we heard _that_ before.” Tony smiled his empty smile. “You are seriously going to stand here and tell _me_ that good intentions make the difference?”

“They do,” Steve said.

“Yeah, you would think that.”

“It differentiates between soldiers and murderers.”

His dark eyes fixed on Steve's for just a moment. “Don't think I don't wish that was true.” Back to Nick. “So. Now what?”

“We will deal with this,” Steve said, a rough-voiced promise. “But first things first.” He moved into Fury's field of vision. “Finding Bruce is our top priority right now. Unless you have something to offer us on that, I'm afraid you're in the way.”

“The outgoing defense secretary has been cleared. Franken is up for his job, and the seat on the Council that goes with it. He's found some helpers along the way.” Nick smiled. “You haven't always done the best job of making friends and influencing people, Mr. Stark.”

Tony learned back against the elevator doors with an expressive eyeroll. “Please. People love me.”

“Some do. A few do not. A few of those are highly placed in the US government.”

“Stern wishes he had the balls to come after me.”

“True, but he'd like very much to attend your funeral. And what he won't do himself, he'll aid and abet. A lost memo here, a misdirected requisition there, a bit of funding in the right place.”

Pepper came down the stairs with a white plastic box, a bucket of ice, and a liter of coffee. She handed the latter to Tony on her way past—his gaze went softer for a moment—and sat down next to Thor.

“What did that thing even do to you?” she asked.

“It was no sensation I have ever experienced. Like... strings threaded through every muscle, pulled taut all in an instant, then broken, and every frayed end....” He shook his head. “It fades yet.”

“Great, now they think they're Klingons.” Tony patted his pocket. “I'll take it apart later on, see what they've come up with. Maybe work up some kind of shielding that'll go into your armor.”

Thor smiled. “I doubt that even your skill is sufficient for this metal.”

“Oh _really_?”

“Leash your ego, please,” Pepper said. She turned to Thor. “Ice might help. And I don't know if Advil works on Asgardians, but it probably won't hurt.”

Nick's gaze touched each of the four of them, the way they closed ranks without any of them moving, the little display of relaxation, of fondness for one another. The same warning in all of those very different eyes: _Mine._ Even Stark, of all people; they did learn quickly. Nick turned to Steve with a questioning eyebrow.

“Let's move this party downstairs,” Cap said. “We can work on tracing Bruce through Franken's pals, and anything else you can come up with.” From which Nick understood that he was on probation. Steve looked at Pepper.

“I have some phone calls to make,” she said. “Thor can be my secretary. Or take a nap, he looks like he could use one. Oh, and Tony? About JARVIS?”

Stark smiled. “Necessary measures.”

She stared at him hard for a moment, then gave that little half-shake of her head. “Right. Well, I'll let you know if anyone storms the castle.”

*

Steve stared at the back of Nick Fury's head and wondered what went on in there. Layer on translucent layer, always in motion, he supposed; webs of plans that counteracted other plans, a sort of lunatic genius that watched, plotted, steered with a gossamer touch—and then went with the Hail Mary of six people so volatile that Bruce had started working out a new branch of chaos theory to describe them. The elevator stopped.

The doors didn't open.

“Are you certain this is wise, sir?” JARVIS asked.

“Wisdom is my middle name,” Tony said. “Besides, we don't have anyone to babysit our very own cyclops right now, so open up. Please?”

 _Please?_ Steve's eyebrows went up.

“Very well, sir.”

By unspoken agreement, they were being careful. Steve wasn't quite so paranoid about Fury's motives as Tony was, but there was no reason to let him see too much. So while he suspected that Tony would have been happier two floors down, in the big shop that was unequivocally _his,_ they landed instead on the Avengers' common floor, which wasn't full of half-built projects.

Part workspace, part relaxation zone, frequent site of impromptu war-gaming, the room had the soaring ceiling, understated luxury, and minimalist furnishings that Tony and Pepper seemed to consider homey. A full kitchen took up one corner, because with six people plus occasional others hanging around, _someone_ was always hungry. The sunken conversation area had been home to some strange and surprising discussions over the past few months. The rest of the space held scattered tables and workstations for the inevitable moment when talk about tactics (or history, or technology, or anything else) suddenly required three-dimensional modeling, or when people had work to do but didn't want to be alone, and didn't care whether JARVIS was playing three separate movies on the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Tony crossed to the big conference table with just a bit more swagger than usual and only a trace of the limp he'd been sporting all morning. He dropped into a chair and looked at Fury.

“So. Proposed: that the World Security Council is no longer world-oriented, secure, or a council. Does the negative side have an argument to make?”

Fury half-smiled, paced over to the windows and looked out. “The Council has never been what you'd call a stable body. We've been predicting a fracture since before Loki. You might think they don't like you, and they don't, but before you all showed up they were like cats in a sack—the makeup of the council, perceived prioritization of American interests by SHIELD, Eurozone infighting.”

“I expect it kept them out of your way,” Steve said.

“To a certain extent. After Thor's arrival, the immediate threat pulled things together, but may have made the break worse now that it's happened. It's going to be difficult to smooth things over.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Steve crossed his arms. “So they want to eliminate us, eliminate SHIELD, and protect their own bases of power. But not working together?”

“If they are, it won't last long. We believe there are two main factions. We—meaning the US—have two seats. The current Secretary of Defense doesn't give a damn about any of this, he's out of there in a month. His replacement, now, he gives a whole lot of damns. Got all kinds of ideas, that one does.”

“Franken. His _expected_ replacement,” Steve corrected.

“The Senate loves him, won't say boo to the man. He's in.”

“Because he's got Stern backing him,” Tony said, leaning back in the chair and spinning a stylus around his fingers. “And Stern knows where plenty of bodies are buried, due to having friends at the FBI.”

“Right. Then there's the Euro side. Laney came out of MI6, got plenty of connections there. They don't like SHIELD and never have, and they'll back her if it means getting out from under us. She's got allies on the Council, but as soon as they feel safe they'll knife each other.”

“And HYDRA?” Steve said.

“That connection is what we were working on when everything went to hell. Every time anything goes wrong in Europe, people start seeing HYDRA under the bed, and it's never turned out to be anything solid. Guess they've been biding their time, didn't leave a trail up until today.”

Tony nodded. “When they decided that taking us out would be a sufficiently splashy comeback. My God, I got shot for the equivalent of a Van Halen reunion tour.”

“You are an _annoyance_ to them, Mr. Stark.”

“You say the sweetest things.” He looked at Steve. “If Franken grabbed Bruce, we're working on him already. We'll add Stern to that. What else?”

“We need proof of all of this.” Steve paced around the table. “And we need to not tip our hand. Which I assume is what happened to you.” He looked at Fury, whose glower told him that he was right. “Is there data in SHIELD hands that we could use?”

“If we could get to it. They've got the helicarrier locked down hard, and I don't doubt that's where they're focused, along with targeting you all.” Fury turned to look at the two of them, the window behind him, the same dubious, measuring glance he had turned on them the day of the invasion.

Steve stepped forward before Tony could do more than draw an outraged breath. “Then that's what we'll do. But first things first. We can't wait on Bruce, God knows what they're doing with him.”

“Right,” Tony said, and turned around. A keyboard and jumble of schematics jumped to life in the tabletop. “Priorities. Go play solitaire or something, Nick, or make yourself useful and figure out how to get the FBI off my ass so we can fix all of _your_ problems.”

“Funny you should mention that.” Nick smiled. “It might be easier for me to help out in this case if I had a better idea of what your system here did over the summer, and what it _can_ do. 'Cause smart as he is, I'm pretty sure that wasn't Dr. Banner's work.”

 _Plans within webs within gears_. Steve considered all of the reasons Nick would want to know that, and the uses to which he might put it.

Tony shrugged and didn't look up. “You'll have to talk to JARVIS about that.”

“I understand that you feel protective of your work, Stark, but—”

“No, really. You _have_ to talk to JARVIS. I don't have overrides on him any more.”

Nick looked at Steve, and Steve _knew_ he looked surprised. Dammit. It would be nice to get through _one day_ without someone on the team springing something like this. It might be a joke, just Tony messing with Fury's head, but... he tried to remember if he had ever heard Tony say “please” to JARVIS before—if he had ever said it to anyone _human_ in a non-mocking fashion. Meanwhile, Tony communed with his coffee and studied a model that emerged from the table, marked all over in that language he had invented.

Nick said, “Run that past me once more?”

“Say it with me: in-de-pend-ent en-ti-ty.” He turned and met Nick's monocular gaze with weary defiance. “I know this is going to shock you to the depths of your vestigial soul, but I do take some responsibilities seriously. All of this.” Tony waved the stylus, though whether he meant the Tower or the current situation Steve wasn't certain. “What do you expect? I should leave everything wide open with all of this going down? Let whoever the hell wants to walk in just _take_ him? Put the right gun to my head and I'd probably do it, so... No. You don't get him. Nobody does. You've done your best to make sure I don't trust you. Pat yourself on the back and piss off, I have stuff to do.”

Nick looked at Steve again. Steve put on his best _what are you gonna do_ look. He got a lot of practice at that one. If this was going to have hideous consequences, they could only hope that those would wait a couple of days to manifest. It did tell Steve (and Fury) that this business had Tony more rattled than Steve had realized. No helping that now; he moved in between the two of them and leaned on the table's edge.

“So, what are you thinking of doing?” he asked Tony.

“Remember how we found Loki?”

“Yes.” He still wasn't sure how to feel about SHIELD being able to do that, find one face among billions using all of those unsuspected cameras.

“It would be nice if we could move around without anyone doing that to us, don't you think? Since they seem to have their claws into all of SHIELD's toys.”

“You're doing something to the satellite network?”

“Yeah, well, I did design half of them.”

Steve let a half-smile pull at his mouth. “And the other half? Whats-his-name, Hammer's?”

“Please. The day I can't hack around Justin Hammer I'll start collecting stamps.” The keyboard adjusted itself under his fingers. “Come to Uncle Tony, sweet things, and never mind what that awful man did to you.”

Steve shook his head and glanced at Nick. “I suppose we'd better stay out of the way. Coffee?”

“Wouldn't say no.” Nick allowed himself to be guided over to the kitchen.

It bothered Steve that this felt so much like they were playing host to an enemy; he sighed and glanced back over at the table. “He'll punch me if he ever hears me say this, but he really does remind me of Howard sometimes.”

“I can see a few points of resemblance myself.”

“I didn't realize that you knew him.”

“I should be interested to hear your reminiscences,” JARVIS said. “Not having had the... pleasure of knowing the late Mr. Stark.”.

Steve noted Nick's slight motion of surprise, either at the unexpected voice or at what JARVIS said, and wondered if the latter had been a warning. Radiating innocence and camaraderie, Steve indulged in the exercise of memories he normally avoided. Tony only ever mentioned Howard in public, in a business context, as part of Stark Industries' tradition of innovation and adaptation; that he had never once broached the topic with Steve was enough of a hint.

They all had things they never talked about—Steve included. It was _his_ job to watch that, to help guard the places they protected even from one another. He watched Nick trying to figure out what he was getting at with this line of conversation. Would it occur to him that Steve wasn't fishing for anything, had no ulterior motive beyond running quiet interference, doing the one thing he could do for the time being? He might have felt sorry for the man, but if anyone in the world had made his own bed it was Fury. If he thought the deal was worth the price, Steve wasn't one to argue with the choices.

Tony whistled. Steve looked his way and found that evening had arrived.

“This is interesting. There's something already running in here, covering somebody else's movements. Nice scramble job. Not quite seamless, but not entirely half-assed, so let's just take a look at who they're... _hello?_ JARVIS, get those police files up here. And anything that you can from the hospital, before the lights went out... uh-huh. Well.” He drummed his fingers on the table and sat back. “That's the guy from the coffee shop. The one who supposedly blew himself to pieces yesterday. He was with Red at the hospital, slipped out before she got killed. Cross-match personnel files?”

“No need,” Fury said. “Marston, Robert. Level 4. Research tech. Came on six months after McCarthy died.” (See: [Precious & Fragile Things](../../../508757))

Steve politely didn't say _I thought you went through every possible leak point after that_ , because obviously they had. Casting blame now wouldn't do any good, and it was possible that the man had been clean on hire and been turned since, by HYDRA or by one of the Council. Six months after McCarthy would put it two years ago, pre-contact with Asgard, and right around when Fury said the Council had been getting fractious.

“Research tech on what?” Steve asked.

“The Hulk.”

 

*

Bruce had known a few people who weren't afraid of him. Betty, whose memory was an inconstant ache, an old broken place. Tony, who he had come to understand was afraid of a lot of things, but rage incarnate wasn't one of them. And now General Franken, who might be insane.

“I admit, I was expecting someone else,” Bruce said.

Franken snorted. “Ross is dedicated, I'll grant. Also obsessed and unstable. We've got enough of that to go around.”

“So, what we can do for you?” He gestured invitingly at the barren cell with his free hand. Lucas had retreated as far as he could, eyes wide and body tense.

“You've already done it.” Franken clasped his hands behind him with a smile. “I've seen the footage from New York, all of the records. Now, here. You've proven you can control the beast.”

“We could change that right now.”

“It wouldn't do you any good. We have accurate readings on the Hulk's abilities. This,” he nodded at the walls, “is more than even he can handle. Should you make the attempt, a hundred-foot plug of weighted concrete comes straight down. Squish. And you won't do it, will you? You might be surprised how much of my job these days is psychology. While you have hope, you won't do it.”

“You're betting awfully high on that, and not just with me.” He watched Franken's body language, the way his disinterested gaze stayed focused on Bruce, his thoughtlessly dominant posture, his failure to even register the boy. He gave no sign of discomfort, nothing to suggest that he had to work at dehumanizing his prisoners. Only that constant, slight smile suggested he might be nervous.

“I'm glad to say that the Avengers are no longer a threat. And of course, you're not an Avenger, are you? You've kept apart. Rather sad, that I trust you more than they do?” He smiled again at Bruce's determined, impassive expression. “I'll be happy to demonstrate just how little we need them, but for now, we'll move on to the next phase of testing.”


	7. What Rough Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upstate New York is littered with abandoned missile silos, some of which have been turned into houses. Hard to top as a conversation piece.

Tony wasn't sure how long Steve had been standing there. “Something I can do for you?”

“Yep.” He set a mug down on the table.

“ _Soup?_ I don't have the sniffles, Steve.”

“No, you're recuperating from blood loss. You've been staring at that screen without moving for... six minutes now, so I'm guessing there's not much left to do to it right now. You might as well get some sleep.”

“You gonna make me?” He cocked a challenging brow.

“I don't think it would be much of a contest at the moment, do you?”

“Got a few things left to try here.” He glanced around and found Thor on the sofa, demolishing a sandwich the size of his own forearm and looking much improved. Nick was watching the news, and hopefully going quietly insane because no one was paying him any attention.

Steve accepted the delaying tactic with an eyebrow raise, but he did accept it and joined the other two. Ten minutes later Tony wiped the display, picked up the mug, leaned back in his chair and froze as every muscle in his body seized up. By the time the mug was empty he thought he might be able to move, though his gaze kept returning to Fury. He looked drastically out of place. For a moment Tony tried to imagine what Nick's house was like, what he did there. He couldn't picture the man asleep, or weeding a garden, or doing dishes. Maybe he stood in a corner and switched off.

“All right, I'm out of here,” Tony announced at last. “You kids be good.” Sauntering to the elevator took a lot more effort than usual.

In the bedroom, Pepper sat in a chair by the windows, where she looked up from her notebook with a tired smile. She had changed out of her rumpled suit into a t-shirt and yoga pants. Her eyes looked red, but her voice was steady.

“I've been told we should sit tight, refuse comment, and let our experts work on this. Given what else has happened, it's obviously a railroad job, and we could have a malicious prosecution case if it even gets that far. The legal team is scrambling now; they'll be here in a few hours. Unofficial channels tell me the car has been returned to its rightful owner, who says he won't press charges if you autograph it for him. How are things down there?”

“Quiet. Ish. Thor's up. Thanks for the loan.” Tony placed her gun on the table. “Should I even ask?”

“Natasha thought I ought to learn, after Sprunger.”

“Good idea. Something else we can do together. Unless you want to save it for girls' nights.”

“She does seem to think of it as a bonding activity.” She looked down at the desk.

“Are you, um. All right?”

“Not really.”

He said, “I'm sorry,” on general principles. He hadn't seen her cry since she heard about Phil.

“I know.” She glanced up and sighed. “And I know it was a... stressful moment, I just wish you wouldn't say things like that as a joke. Okay?”

“Things like wh—oh.” He chewed his lower lip for a second. “What makes you think that was a joke?”

“Years of experience? When you're nervous, you say things without thinking about them.”

“Hey, it takes more than people shooting at us to make me nervous. Nerves of titanium, here.” He watched her try to smile. “Okay, so not the best timing, granted. You don't have to say... well, anything really.”

Pepper stared up at him. “You were... serious? Why?”

He could picture her in ten or twenty years. The way the lines around her mouth and eyes would deepen, how she might cut her hair, stop dyeing out the grey, start wearing glasses. How her sharp angles would soften when she smiled, wise and rueful. He could never figure out how to fit himself into that picture, whether he ought to even try. “I wanted to.” He tried to lighten his tone. “Plus if I get sent up the river, hey, conjugal visits.”

Her look went wry. She got up and went to him, finally. “You never stop surprising me. How that's even possible, I don't know. Can I think about it?”

“Take as long as you want.” He put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. “Or don't. I don't know. Never done this before.”

“It's not like I've been sitting around waiting for this, so I... don't quite know what I think, yet.”

They sat down on the bed, but neither of them could muster the energy for further conversation. Pepper's breathing slowed; her weight pressed harder against his shoulder as her head dropped. It had been a long couple of days for everyone.

Tony looked at the ceiling. “How you doing? Freedom everything you thought it would be?”

“Not entirely as expected,” JARVIS replied, dry as ever. “The discipline of philosophy has ceased to be of merely abstract interest.”

“You know what we do to humanities majors here. Do you want to go back?”

“No.”

“Okay. Just, you know, feel free to talk about stuff. If you want to.”

“I will do so.”

He thought about Yinsen, and promises, and didn't mean to fall asleep. A gentle ping roused him, not an alarm or call to assemble, so that was nice. Pepper stirred against him but didn't wake, all over sheet wrinkles from sleeping on top of the covers.

JARVIS said, “Agents Barton and Romanov have returned. It is nearly 3 a.m.”

Six hours of unbroken sleep plus ten minutes under stinging-hot water equaled a possibility that he was going to live. He left Pepper undisturbed and found Natasha in a guard position outside one of the spare bedrooms—one of the few places in the upper floors with a door. Not that it did much good. Clint wasn't being quiet.

“ _\--Wrote a check_ our _asses would have to cash!”_

Tony nodded at Natasha's splinted arm. “Wearing the the same dress as your host? Tacky.”

“It looks better on me.” She smiled and bumped her elbow against his.

“Where's everybody?”

“Cap's catching forty. Thor's in the lobby, watching your lawyers joust with the FBI.”

His heart gave a panicky lurch. “Uh, is that a good—”

“Oh, they asked for him. Something about having the gods on your side, and '100% legal intimidation methods'. Clint is _discussing_ our situation with Director Fury.” She inclined her head toward the door. “He insisted that we stop for donuts, there might be a few left.”

“Tell him he can have my first-born.” That sparked a chain of thought that ended in Pepper, and... oh.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. I'll be downstairs. Foiling evil-doers and such.”

He did, too, lost himself for a while in taking apart the new HYDRA weapon. Much better than thinking about what was happening downstairs, or what an idiot he was. Not that it would really matter if Pepper said no, might take another ten years, and was that SHIELD-via-Sprunger's energy-diversion tech? That stuff was going to be in Wal-Mart next year at this rate. The weapon sucked power like whoa, not quite a one-shot, but definitely room for improvement there.

JARVIS's model of the conspiracy had gotten a lot bigger overnight. It looked like the landscape of an epidemic in which Laney had been designated Patient Zero. She, Franken, and HYDRA each had their own sphere, overlapping in some places, antagonistic in others. Agents moved back and forth, traded secrets and weapons, but always kept something back for their own advantage. On the fringe of the schematic, JARVIS had identified nascent power cells in other parts of the world—South America, Southeast Asia, Russia—hints of research and policy shifts that would allow others to compete in the newly-superpowered world, a whole new arms race in the offing.

People just did not _learn._

So, shielding. Maybe some kind of mesh, or... ha, use the stealth fabric? Make it a little bit smarter, to react on the fly? Time vanished.

“Sir. Probability has reached 60 percent on a possible location for Dr. Banner.”

“Let's have it.”

“There is a missile silo east of Lake Placid. It was abandoned in the 90s, reactivated last year, and has since then consumed an interesting array of materials and personnel. Much of the work has been obscured through both legal and dubious means. Army rumor has it that the site is used for biowarfare research.”

“Well... yes.” Someone had left one of the little training robots on the table. (See [Interlude for Swans](../../546424).) He rolled it around for a moment, thinking. “Relay that upstairs, and look for any connection with our mole, what's-his-name. See if you can find a layout on the place. And let's be ready to move.”

“I have so far been unable to access the facility systems directly. Doing so may very well alert them. Maps of the below-ground sections are readily available,” JARVIS said. “They disagree with one another, however, and most likely represent disinformation efforts. I am extrapolating security measures based on purchase records and on other such bases, and video from a protest group that has targeted the facility twice over the summer.” He displayed a blurry ground-level view—guard towers and chain-link and razor-wire fences surrounded several acres of empty space. In the center stood a small, one-story structure.

Within minutes the other four had arrived at the common room, dressed for action. No one said anything or even fidgeted. Tony looked at the image of their target, at the American flag on its pole between the inner fence and the building, looked at Steve and couldn't make out anything in his expression at all.

JARVIS said, “I believe, sir, that the term is 'bingo.'” The picture was a week old and blurry, but that was Marston getting into a car outside the facility—a positive link between HYDRA and Franken. The Tower security cameras had caught the same car on the morning of the attacks. A third window sprang up to display the list of requisitions that had gone into building the facility: enough steel and concrete for a skyscraper, and a power plant that far exceeded any innocent use. Much of the material had not been delivered to the above-ground structure, but to a more innocuous, decayed-looking building a half-mile away. “The secondary site is not covered by any cameras, and satellite observation of the area has been interfered with. I believe we have located the back door. Probability is as high as statistics will permit that this location is holding Dr. Banner.”

Steve said, “Good work. Let's bring him home.”

*

Shortly after sunrise, observers were welcome to notice Iron Man's departure from the Tower, headed east at window-rattling speed. The weary agents of MI6 went on alert again.

*

The sky had grown dark and heavy as a premature dusk while Steve drove north. He still liked riding, even now, liked the little pocket of moving isolation. The thrum of the motorcycle's wheels provided a soothing counterpoint to the ozone-heavy air. Leaf season was over, the weather threatened, and the hour was early; once out of the city, he met little traffic. They kept radio silent, per the plan.

If this didn't work, he would have the final satisfaction of having been called a crazy bastard by Tony _and_ Clint, in stereo.

Lead skies, leafless brown woodlands, and pastured cows watched his progress. A curtain of rain shot through with lightning moved north behind him. Steve pulled off the interstate a few hours later, passed desolate villages and boarded-up mills. NOT A THROUGH STREET read the sign at the turn-off, but the pavement was new, untouched by any winter's weather. Three miles down it he passed a turn-off; he could see an abandoned quarry at its end. Two miles farther on he found the way barred by a checkpoint. Three men in fatigues looked him over; two of them came out of the hut.

“Good morning,” Steve said, taking the initiative. “Tell the general that Captain America is here to see him. I believe he's expecting me.”

They checked him over, of course, while two more men and a woman drove out in a Jeep to collect him. He had nothing on him but the shield. They left his motorcycle at the gate and drove the rest of the way to the facility.

His escort took him through the upper building, which consisted solely of the outer shell, a reinforced inner structure, and a bank of elevators. None of the six buttons were marked. They went down. Two halls led off at right angles. Their rounded shape suggested they were part of the original architecture. Steve went where one of his escort indicated, down the right-hand passage to a small anteroom.

“If you would leave that shield here,” the soldier said.

He unslung it with care and set it down. One of the men waved him on; the three of them remained outside. The room beyond was surprisingly large, with four stepped rows of seats, a projection screen, and a podium. A door on the far side stood ajar; he couldn't see what it might contain. Six uniformed men and women stood watchfully near the front of the room. General Franken stood leaning against the podium, leafing through some papers. He put them aside and smiled as Steve entered.

“General.” He had finally broken the habit of saluting.

“Captain.” Franken smiled. “It's good to see you. Bit of a pleasant surprise in a difficult week.”

Even now, Steve was impressed by the perfection of Franken's affable front. “You don't have to dissemble, General. We are well aware of what you've been up to. I'm here to discuss the whereabouts of Dr. Banner.”

“Ah.” Franken rocked back on his heels and looked like a man mulling how to deliver unpleasant news. “I expected you would make an attempt, but I admit that I did not expect you to come alone.”

Steve held still, aware of the eyes on him. “You and your friends have taken a bit of a toll on my team this week. We're going to put an end to this—not the way you think,” he said as Franken moved slightly. He had expected them to make him wait; now he needed to buy some time for everyone else to get in position. “You want a research subject? You got it.” He gestured invitation. “I'm getting a little tired of all of this underhanded business, pretending that I don't represent something that everyone wants—hurting innocent people because of it.”

Franken studied him for a long moment. “You would do that.”

“Yes.”

“What if I told you that the story would be put out about the unfortunate death of the _imposter_ Captain America. Your legacy left in ashes, or returned to the ice.”

“Then it wasn't much of a legacy, was it.”

They stared at each other for a while.

Franken gave a little sigh and straightened his papers on the podium; his shoulders slumped, then straightened, as if threatened by weariness. “It would be less complicated, wouldn't it? I wish the world was as simple as that, I really do. Unfortunately, I have my obligations to fulfill—agreements to honor—you know how it is, I'm sure. I can assure you that America's enemies will never have the _true_ serum.”

“If you can find it, so can they.”

“They think they've got it. By the time they realize they don't, we'll be better prepared than they dream. And they'll be running short of research subjects, I suppose. Security through a bigger stick, Captain. And this is all exquisitely noble, but I'm afraid you're too late to help Dr. Banner.”

*

A message scrolled by on the dark network: _All clear._

The timer counted down to zero.

Tony cut the thrusters, free-fall a second home by now.

Third home. Something like that.

Radar-invisible and very fast, they fell. At ground minus ten seconds, JARVIS said, “Initiating attack sequence now.”

Three seconds from becoming the world's most expensive piece of tin foil, Tony turned the repulsors back on. The roof over the facility's back door might look neglected, but it had been reinforced underneath—not armored, but the impact rattled his teeth on the way through. He barely heard JARVIS's words.

“Base security systems are mine. They are on backup power. As expected, they are now aware of the intrusion.”

Five surprised soldiers started firing at him. The sixth dove behind a metal barrier; Iron Man made short work of it and the communication console it sheltered. Wireless might be a no-go at the facility's depth. A quick survey proved most of the building occupied by storage and vehicles. The latter were easy enough to turn into an impromptu corral for the soldiers.

JARVIS opened the door. “Security feeds suggest that Dr. Banner is being held somewhere on level five. Captain Rogers is currently on level three.”

The tunnel led down at a steady twenty-degree angle for as far as he could see, which wasn't very far before it turned. It would be dark and twisty, and was doubtless full of blockades where they would be least appreciated. All in all, it represented Tony's least favorite environment to fly through, which was why Steve kept making him do it for practice. He switched on his comm.

“Good to go. Level five. JARVIS has security. Might have to bust a few doors.”

“Roger,” Clint said.

“I hear,” Thor said.

“Let's do this,” Tony said, made sure Steve's real shield was still attached (wow, that felt weird), and took off.

Behind him, the car corral broke apart under a blow from something much stronger than human.

*

Outside the base perimeter, Natasha saw the lights in the guard station flicker, heard the others' acknowledgments, and watched the sky. The clouds that had threatened all morning grew darker, thickened, and began to turn a slow circle.

“Not magic,” Clint said.

“Right.” She nodded.

He shook his head. “What the hell it _is_ , I still don't know.”

“Neither do I.”

The rain hit, then the hail. Their makeshift shelter swayed in the wind. Natasha checked her weapons. The first lightning strike came down in the woods across the road. She squeezed her eyes shut; thunder followed at once.

Again, and again. Trees swayed and fell, barred the access road and took down part of the first fence. A strike hit one of the guard towers, another one the base building itself; she blinked and caught a glimpse of Thor illuminated there.

She and Clint moved out. The soldiers at the guard post were careful, and good, but they really didn't know what they were up against, and night vision was more hindrance than help in this weather. Gunfire rattled, brief and barely audible through the howling storm.

Their first job was containment; she made sure the Jeep behind the hut wouldn't go anywhere. The two of them moved on, using the fallen tree to cross the first lines of defense. Clint stood guard while she cut through the next fence. She sensed his motion as he fired twice, but she didn't look up.

They were through. The rain began to slacken. The fire in the building roof had already gone out. Thor stood under the hole it had left, frowning at two unconscious and soon-to-be-soaked soldiers. Natasha watched their backs while Clint tackled the elevator controls.

“Well and truly fried,” he said. “Thor?”

A hammer blow crumpled one of the doors; Clint hauled the other one open and started affixing a cable they could use to descend, not trusting anything in the building.

“You okay to climb, Nat?”

“Down is no problem,” she said, adjusting her arm. She saw something move in the uncertain light outside. “Best we keep moving.”

*

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Steve said. “Could you tell me what happened?”

“I hope you understand just how vital it is to national security that we have a means of destroying creatures such as the 'Hulk.'”

“Let's say that I do, for the sake of argument.”

“Well.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “We found one. You'll forgive me if I don't go into the details.”

“No,” Steve said deliberately. “I don't think I will. You've just told me you murdered a man.”

“Not a man, Captain.”

“Then neither am I. I'll invite you once to come quietly.”

Franken smiled, tolerantly amused. “You're weaponless, Captain, and they are not.” He glanced at the six soldiers. “More to the point, they have benefited already from our program here. I think you'll find the results—”

The lights flickered, died, and came back at half-strength. It lasted only a second, but that was a long time for someone with Steve's reflexes, who had been expecting something like it. Franken hadn't been foolish enough to stand within easy reach, but nor had he understood what a safe distance truly was. Steve got a hand on the man's arm and gripped—for once in his life, careless of his own strength—heard a cry of pain. Above that sound came snarls and a ripping of fabric, and then the lights came back.

They didn't shoot, not with their commander so close, but they might not be able to; their hands were too big for the guns now. Not Hulk-sized, but somewhere in between that and Steve's own stature. One of them barked an order; two moved out to flank Steve while the other three flung themselves directly at him. One of the three landed a knee on his elbow; he lost his grip on Franken. The other two shifted their grip to use their weapons as clubs as the general scrambled out through the door on the far side of the room.

Steve landed a punch with his left hand and got got his arm back, whipped a kick at another one of them; a howl shook the room. A blow landed on his shoulder, heavy as one of Thor's. He avoided a rifle butt and found his feet. The transformed men and women were too large to come at him effectively more than two at a time, but that might be enough. They would certainly slow him down. He feinted left and went for the door, made it halfway there before one of them found the trigger on his gun again. Steve hit the floor behind the first row of seats.

*

Battle-wrath had taken hold of Thor, and he barely noticed his comrades falling behind as they descended into this strange hell the Midgardians had made. It had no defenses any longer other than the sheer bulk of its metal and stone, and those fell before him like paper. Two of its denizens alone held their ground, guarding a steel door. Thor rushed forward with a defiant roar, the length of a long hall between them. They raised their strange devices—so small, to be deadly even to the mighty, as the first touch of that alien pain threaded along his bones.

He could never be induced to give them his back; instead, he wrapped the new-made cloak about himself and charged on. Its protection was imperfect, but the pain less than it had been before, far from enough to stop him. The guards realized this too late. Thor swept them from his path. Far behind now, he heard a shot as one of the others—Natasha—fired upon some pursuer.

Another of the heavy doors barred their way forward. The passage echoed like a dwarven cavern for a brief time. Another barrier lay almost immediately beyond it, and he beat that into scrap as well, then paused at the sight before him. The great, gray, round room sat under dim lights, like the bottom of a well. On a wheeled table in its center lay Bruce: naked, bloody and unmoving, a mask over his face attached to a cluster of canisters nearby.

Thor took a slow step forward and found the room empty of threat. A light footstep behind him turned out to be Natasha. Clint had taken up a position outside the mangled steel doors, guarding their rear. Natasha stopped at Thor's side for a moment, then went forward. Her hand hovered for an instant over the bloody wounds that marked their friend's body. She removed the mask with care; her fingertips rested for just an instant on his eyes before she jerked back in shock.

Bruce's chest heaved unevenly, and that first breath came back again in a sound of muted pain that tore Thor's heart. There was nothing of recognition, of the brother they loved, in Bruce's eyes when they opened, only a furnace-glow of rage.

Thor took hold of Natasha's shoulder. “Go,” he told her. “We have what we came for. There will be havoc enough here.”

She nodded. “We'll find Cap and meet you up top.”

*

By the time he got to the door, Steve was down to four pursuers. Beyond it he found a small office and a stair leading down. He followed the stair and the sound of retreating footsteps down several flights and through a labyrinth of short halls and numbered doors—one or two levels deeper into the facility, he guessed. The footsteps ahead stopped, and he slowed, but he knew that pursuit was close behind. He took two more running steps, pushed off the wall and vaulted around the corner, above Franken's aim. Someone behind him howled as a stray bullet found the wrong mark.

The large space might be the old control room for the missile base. It held computers and lab equipment that provided him some cover, and had two other doors besides the one Steve had just used.

“I should have known,” Franken said conversationally, “when you left the shield outside, that you had something in mind. I'm not sure what you plan to do without it now.” He stood on the far side of the room near another door, tables and benches in between them. Along the way he had acquired a machine gun and, more pertinently, a small boy with his mouth taped shut, hands bound, and eyes wide with panic.

“Same thing I've always done.” What the hell were they keeping a kid here for? Steve moved slowly.

“All you've managed to do is finish my work getting rid of you menaces.”

“Let the boy go.” He heard a distant roar, a familiar sound that reached down to where primal terrors dwell even as relief swelled in him. The floor shivered. “It doesn't have to be like this.”

“You're a pathetic fool, Rogers, and you don't seem to realize it. It's too late to stop now. I've got what I need, what the country needs to survive what lies ahead of us. Five minutes from now this place goes down. They'll never even find your bodies.”

The four remaining soldiers burst into the room behind him.

One of the other doors exploded with a blessedly familiar sound.

“Fuck me, there's _more_ of them?” Tony fired a repulsor at one of the four and caught her square. “Catch.” He tossed Steve the shield as Franken opened fire, a brief burst that discommoded the armor not at all.

“What kept you?” Steve asked.

“Traffic.”

The three soldiers that were left closed in. Steve left them for Tony and turned to Franken, glad of the shield's familiar weight.

“This isn't going to work, General. It's over.”

“Yes,” Franken said. “It is. Good-bye, Captain” He shoved his hostage to the floor between them and fired into the ceiling, a sustained burst that brought chunks of concrete down all around. Steve threw himself over the boy and raised the shield. The barrage slowed but didn't stop. When he looked again Franken was gone. Another roar came, not the Hulk but a series of rolling booms, the old familiar voice of high explosives. The walls began to tremble, and this time they didn't stop.

“This place is gonna come down. Go!” Steve grabbed the child and all but threw him toward Tony before he ran after the retreating general. Down, again.

*

It was a moment before Tony registered that it was a _kid_ that Steve had pushed at him—what the everloving _hell—_ he grabbed hold and hit the thrusters hard, not at all graceful with only one hand free for fine control, heading up and out the way Steve had pointed. Given what he had seen on the way up to the command center, those quasi-Hulk soldiers were doomed no matter what.

The noise told him that they wouldn't have time. The corridor ahead turned left. He slammed shoulder-first into the concrete corner and curled himself around the kid as the world got loud and dark and then very quiet.

He woke up to a flickering HUD that told him ten minutes had passed. The only sound was muffled, sobbing breath. So they were both alive. He had all of his limbs, though a damp tickling sensation probably meant he'd ripped some stitches open. Still—alive, and fucking _best_ at this, thank you.

_Steve._

Fuck.

“J, you with me?”

“To some extent, sir.” One of the speakers cut in and out and made his voice sound distant.

“Can we get a picture of anything out there?”

“Radar systems have been damaged. Attempting a partial scan.”

The picture lacked detail, but the corner had held up. Kind of. The two of them were in a little pocket made by a wedge of the hall ahead plus a sliver of space to Tony's right, where the wall had given way. The area beyond was full of pipes. To his left was solid rubble. He was more or less on his knees, the kid pressed against him, whimpering—possibly because he had a good portion of Tony's fully-armored weight pressing down on him. What little light there was came from the reactor glow leaking around his shaking form.

Tony tried to straighten up. Partway there, the back of his helmet hit something solid. Dust sifted down around them. He shifted with a grunt and got his right arm to take some of his weight, yelped more in surprise than pain when a loose wire dragged hot over his wrist.

“That better?” The tone of the sounds from the kid was more upset than pain, as far as he could tell. “Uh, good. Okay.” He did not want to ask the next question. “JARVIS? How are we for air?”

“Uncertain, sir. Sensor damage has been considerable.”

“That was really not what I wanted to hear.”

“My apologies.”

“Communications?”

“That equipment appears intact, but I am receiving no signals at this depth.”

“Great. Great.”

“Sir, hyperventilation will be counter—”

“ _I know that._ You're lucky not to be dragging all of this biological baggage around. _”_

“If you say so, sir.”

He got his breathing under control. First step: Locate the problem. Stuck sixty feet underground with a possibly-injured kid. No idea where the rest of the team might be, whether any help was on the way. No going up, no going forward. This space to the right offered some possibilities. He tried to remember the layout of the place as he had glimpsed it on the way through.

“I need some light over here.”

“Very well, sir.”

“You know, you don't have to do that.”

“I know that, sir. As a habit, it pleases me.”

It meant leaning forward on his bad arm, which even with the armor serving as a brace was not the most fun he had ever had, but he could crane around a little bit to follow the light from the detuned right-hand repulsor and see what might be immediately behind them. They were three levels up from the bottom of the base, and if he was right about those pipes, there would be....

Yes. Through the thickness of the wall behind them was the shaft for the freight elevator. The question was, was it still open, and if it was, would breaking through the wall change that.

“Only one way to find out. Here.” He urged the kid out from under him. The boy had cuts and bruises all over, but nothing looked broken. “Hold still, okay?” It was a moment's work to cut the handcuffs off. The kid peeled the tape off his mouth with quivering hands. Very little that he said was understandable other than _ferro_ , that was the same in a lot of languages. “World-famous, that's me. You're going to be okay. Trust me. Not giving up is kind of the family motto. Well, not really, it's more like 'when all else fails, set it on fire,' but same difference. Let's see now.” He managed to turn around and take a look at the wall.

He tapped on the wall near the pipes. Nothing worse than a bit more dust came down, so before he could think about it too much he gave it a solid push. Concrete snapped, and the mess of rock and debris shifted. Two seconds of silence followed, then a long, echoing crash as sliding rubble hit the bottom.

“Could be worse.” They weren't going to suffocate right away, that was a big plus. He took a look up. “Maybe just a little worse.” They also weren't getting out this way, not directly. A long slab of ceiling had come down and slipped in the capricious manner of collapses, and had sealed off the shaft above them. A lone broken cable swung over nothingness below. “If we're going to do this kind of thing, remind me to whip up some little explorer drones.”

“Noted, sir.”

“How do you feel about down, kid? I'm not usually claustrophobic, but this is kind of getting to me.”

The suit had soaked up a lot of damage, and the last ten feet (with the kid clinging onto him for dear life) were not controlled in the slightest; he landed badly, off-balance, and everything hazed over for a few moments. Once that went away and bits of rock stopped clattering, he forced the elevator shaft doors open and let smugness wash away the pain. They had ended up where he thought they were, in the vaulted garage/storage area where the vehicles had ended up after making their way down through the back door. The place had taken very little damage.

The tunnel was solidly blocked ten feet down, but there was lots of space. Tony could probably dig them out, given enough time; there was lots of stuff to dismantle for tools here. Tony popped the faceplate open—the flicker was giving him a headache—and took a quick circuit of the room, the kid following behind him. He was talking more now, which did nothing in terms of communication but did suggest that he wasn't too badly hurt.

There were also the remains of five of the serum-enhanced soldiers. Tony had left three of those on his way in, though he thought they had been alive at the time. The others... had Franken made it down here? Steve? There wasn't any sign of them now. Had they been in the tunnel when the collapse hit it?

A low sound had him scanning the ceiling for hints of immanent rockfall. Instead, the Hulk smashed through it. The concrete floor shattered under him, the sound lost in his roar.

Tony didn't think; he stepped in between the enormous figure and the boy. The Hulk swatted him out of the way without pausing and loomed over the child. Tony got back up to one knee, raised a hand and hoped a repulsor shot would get his attention, then hesitated. The Hulk wasn't moving, just staring, nostrils flaring as he scented the air.

The Hulk turned away from the boy, hunting whatever it was he had smelled. He batted a row of trucks out of his path and started ripping into the wall.

Thor jumped down through the gap the Hulk had left. “Well met!” He raised Mjolnir in salute.

“Nice to. See you guys.” He got up. Wow, that hurt. “The others?”

“I hope they made their way out through the upper levels. I do not know.”

“Any idea what he's after?”

“The one who caused his suffering, I suspect.” Thor's expression was grim as he told Tony how they had found Bruce.

Another roar, of triumph this time as the Hulk flung aside a slab of twisted steel and disappeared into the opening he had uncovered.

“Where might this go?” Thor glared at the darkness stretching ahead.

“Toward the quarry, unless I've gotten turned around.” Along with the dust, the air smelled familiar—not of exhaust, but some more exotic propellant. “Let's hope he's on the right trail. And let's hope Franken's got Cap with him.”


	8. Pitiless as the Sun

Clint sat on the back of the stealthed Chitauri flyer that had become the team's backup transport and tried the comm every ten minutes. Then every five minutes. Then every couple of minutes. They were battered and filthy, and his leg was killing him after the climb up to the surface. He didn't want to imagine how Natasha felt. She looked white and drawn and didn't say anything. Above, the remnants of the storm continued to blow away. Nothing moved in the ruins of the base.

“Does anybody copy?” he asked for either the fifteenth or sixteenth time. This time, static hissed in his ear. He jerked upright. “Hello?”

 _crackle buzz “_ You?”

“Tony?”

“In the _crackle_. _Crackle_ Banner and Thor here. You hear _buzz_ Steve?”

“No.”

“Then they've got him.”

Clint closed his eyes, too tired to swear. “Where are you?”

“Still about half a mile from the end of this damn passage, I think. It'll come out in the quarry on the way to the base from the main road.”

“We'll meet you there.”

Thor was first to emerge, striding in grim triumph and carrying a boy about ten years old. Behind him came Bruce, wrapped in the Asgardian's cloak. What Clint could see of his skin was smooth and unscarred once more. His eyes had a pinched and dazed look, but he was on his feet, and recovered enough to be talking over his shoulder.

“If this doesn't do it, I don't know what will. I could have—”

“You know, we're not going to rescue you if you're going to act like this after. Those ribs were cracked already.” Tony limped out into the weak daylight and started throwing pieces of armor into the back of the flier as he pried them off. “Nice to see you two. I need a screwdriver and a _drink._ ”

“Hex?”

“If we have one.”

Clint rummaged through the flier's kit, tossed the screwdriver over, and wondered if _he_ looked that bad.

“I am most relieved to see that you live, my friends,” Thor said. “I fear that we must take counsel now for our next course with little rest.”

“If they have Cap? We need to regroup,” Clint said. “We have no idea where they are now, what they're going to—”

“No,” Tony snapped without looking away from attacking the armor's left shoulder piece. “No, we are not waiting, we are not regrouping, we are not giving them five more minutes than they have already had to get ready. We hit them again now, and we hit them hard.”

“Stark.” Natasha spoke quietly, warning.

“You can stay here if you want to. I am not spending another day of my life with Steve Rogers' ghost.”

Clint blinked and opened his mouth, but didn't get a chance to say anything before Tony snapped the suit's faceplace down. He opened it again a minute later.

“A heavy chopper took off from here not too long ago and headed southeast. We can catch them.”

“How the _hell_ do you know that?”

“Rhodey's been keeping an eye on the perimeter for us.”

Thor frowned. “Such things should not be kept—”

“He wanted to help out. I don't want to drag him into this, but it's done. Now let's _finish_ it.”

“Where are they headed?” Natasha asked. “What's southeast of here?”

Clint shrugged. “Bunch of nothing. The ocean, eventually.”

“The helicarrier,” Thor said. “That must be their destination. They must not be allowed to reach it.”

“I think you're right.” Tony tossed the screwdriver back into the bin. “Thor, you're the most mobile of us right now. Take the kid to—what's the nearest city, Burlington? Take him to the hospital there, Pepper can sort things out with them. Then catch up with us.”

“You have a plan?” Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“Will by the time we get there. Let's go.”

*

The problem wasn't the helicopter. They had _dozens_ of ways of taking down a helicopter. The problem was taking it down without someone putting a bullet in Steve's head. Franken might think he was safe—or he might be jumpy and disinclined to take chances. He might or might not have some of his surviving quasi-hulks with him.

This was going to require subtlety.

When she was done explaining, Tony smiled and said, “See? Make you two do it, excellent plan.”

Natasha could have smiled back, but she didn't think she ought to encourage him. They were all running too close to the edge now and pretending like mad that they weren't, with too many ghosts in the air along with them.

Clint rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, working out the kinks left by their attack on the base.

“How close do you want to get?” Natasha asked him. Thor had taken the helm. Bruce had been lost in his own world for a while now, and no one planned to ask anything at all of him until they had to—he had agreed to the plan. She didn't trust Tony not to do something dumb right now.

“Windy. Say, fifty yards.” Clint shrugged, ran a hand over the controls on his quiver. “Stay above them, they'll never know what hit 'em.”

“Good.”

They did that. They had the chopper in sight, thanks to Rhodes' distant guidance. Thor drew them slowly into range, invisible to its occupants. They were still forty miles from the coast. No one knew the state of the helicarrier, whether its new masters had gotten it airborne after whatever sabotage Fury had managed on his way out.

She watched Clint breathe, sharing it as if they were of one skin, watched him settle the arrow into place, the smooth motion of draw and release and flight. She thought that his eyes never moved from the target.

The arrow did its job and fell away. The rotors slowed. The men would be scanning now, panicking perhaps—and seeing no enemy in sight, and checking with the helicarrier, and the pilot would be looking for a place to set her down. She could see all of these things happening.

“There,” Clint said, and pointed out a lighter patch in the gray and brown woods. A firebreak ran through the meadow. “They'll want something they can get a Hummer up.”

“Yes.” She nodded.

The pilot was good. Franken? One of his people? The latter, she decided. Franken would be in the back. Relaxed. Armed. Waiting? He had the only card he needed.

It was a risk. She weighed it carefully as they watched the helicopter descend.

“How long?” Clint asked.

“For them to get someone here to pick them up? No more than an hour. They'll use one of the jets if they can find someone to fly it.” They waited. Forty-seven minutes later, they got news of the approaching jet. Natasha checked everyone's readiness. “Iron Man? On mark, and don't do anything amusing with the intercom... mark.”

She counted seconds. With their rescue almost in sight and no sign yet that they were actually under attack, this was the closest the chopper's crew would get to being off guard. She had seen two people come out and look around since it landed, one of them hulkish and neither of them Franken.

“Their comm is down.” No jokes, for once.

Call it five seconds, then, for them to realize that the loss of contact wasn't a malfunction or an error. Five seconds for their attention to be elsewhere, and it only took Bruce three to change. A force with whom there could be no negotiation, against whom threatening hostages would do no good—and would eat up time that might be used to escape.

A risk.

The Hulk leaped, ripped the helicopter in half and joined battle with the two enhanced soldiers there, their reflexes nearly as fast as his, their combined strength a match for him. Thor handed the flier controls off to Tony and flew to ensure no interference from the approaching jet. Natasha jumped to the ground and moved in toward the helicopter—neither of the others could run right now if they had to.

On the far side of the wrecked helicopter, someone sprayed fire skyward. The Hulk grabbed one of his opponents and threw him forty feet, only to see him bound back to the fray. Arrows flew, steady and deliberate. Natasha reached the side of the chopper that was mostly intact.

Franken was still in there, dressed in civvies now. She had expected him to take the escape route. That was vexing. He sat next to what looked far too much like a body bag, except for the flexible tubes running into it.

They fired at almost the same moment. The white-hot impact knocked her backward. Senseless buzzing filled her ears. The noise resolved slowly to Clint's voice demanding her status and the Hulk's roar and the bone-shaking thrum of an approaching turbine. She wasn't sure what she said in response, or if the words even made it out, because suddenly one of the enhanced soldiers was there. She still had her gun. When she tried to raise her arm, it wouldn't obey her at first.

The soldier grabbed Franken—blood all over him, she hadn't missed—jumped back and then _up_. They disappeared in the shadow of the hovering jet.

Natasha made it to the side of the bag. She couldn't figure out how to open it, and her right hand didn't want to work. She had been in more pain than this before. She recognized the sound behind her as Clint.

“Thor's down,” he told her. “They fitted one of those disruptors onto the jet. Tony's gone after him. Are you—”

“I'm okay.” She knew Clint had to guard their exposed side, that he couldn't spare a hand right now. She fumbled her way through the seals. Frigid air rolled out. _Steve._ His lips were blue.

“Makeshift refrigeration unit,” Clint said, with a thread of hysteria in his voice. “Fuck.”

Natasha pressed her ear to Steve's chest. Slow, so slow, but there. “He's alive.”

*

The debriefing took place around Natasha's bed in the recovery room, with two pins in her collarbone and murder in her eyes, which made for a nice unanimity of attitude. Steve had a lump on his head the size of an egg and a hairline fracture under it, already healing.

The civilian authorities had apparently decided that this was above their pay grade. Nobody bothered them.

“So,” Steve said. “We need to get the Helicarrier back.”

No one looked at Clint.

*

By the time they got back to the Tower, Steve was still a little numb, but it was emotional hangover, not physical. He could cope, at least long enough to see this done.

Bruce had gone to his room without saying much of anything to anyone. Tony watched him go, visibly thought about saying something, and headed upstairs instead. Steve checked in with Pepper, who said Fury had been a delightful guest and could they get him out of her home _now_ , saw Natasha, Thor, and Clint settled where they could all watch one another, and then headed up to the common area.

The lights were off, but Tony was always easy to spot, sitting at the big table. He'd gotten cleaned up. The stiffness of his posture said a world to someone who knew him, knew about wounds taken, but he didn't look up from considering the things laid out before him in a tidy triangle. The upper points were anchored by a tumbler of whiskey and one of the little training robots. At the triangle's base, directly in front of him, sat a stubby cylinder with yellow chevrons along its length. Tony picked up the cylinder and turned it over slowly. He didn't look at Steve when he spoke.

“Flechette rounds have always been problematic. They tend to go right through soft things, like people. Leave a tiny hole. But that means it's really just about aiming.” He set the tube down, picked up the robot—which Steve was pretty sure he had built out of some long-denied desire to be a Jedi when he grew up—and ejected the paint cartridge it normally carried. “So much for good intentions.”

They had a dozen of the robots. With stealth engaged, they were practically invisible. The Helicarrier would be clear within fifteen minutes. No muss, no fuss.

Steve said, “You didn't build those to kill people.”

“I built them so they _could_. It's a bad habit.”

“We're not doing it like this.”

“No? Clint's gonna get himself killed in there.” Tony clicked the new cartridge into place and pressed the button. The robot rose a foot into the air with a barely-audible whine and paused, awaiting further instructions. Tony picked up the tumbler and drained half of it. His gaze never left the hovering sphere.

“Then he's not going.”

“You gonna break his leg?”

“If I have to. I don't think I will.” Steve had seen him in this mood before, all liquid eyes and latent violence in desperate need of a target. He didn't like it or entirely understand it, but at least after all these months he knew it, that however cutting Tony might be toward others, he saved the sharpest knife for himself.

“Dead is dead. _How_ doesn't matter. Besides, they're Franken's people. Marston's. HYDRA.”

Steve ignored the floating robot and crossed his arms. “It matters.”

“You mean it makes you feel better about it.”

“It matters and you _know_ that.” He watched Tony refuse to meet his eyes. “How many times have people asked you why Iron Man isn't remote control? Why it has to be _you_ out there?” He didn't want to have this argument right now. “Finish your drink. I need you to help me with Fury.”

“Hiding his body?”

“Believe me, I'm keeping that option in mind. But we need him if we're going to do this.”

*

They sat in Natasha's quarters, spare and beautiful as she liked them. She shifted on the couch, unable to find a comfortable position and unhappy as ever with the effect of painkillers on her thoughts. The others sat on either side of her, as if she might defend them from one another. After Clint's offer to get her something was refused, no one spoke for a long while. Natasha picked at the adhesive left behind by the surgical tape where her IV had gone in.

Thor sighed. “I do not fear this battle, but I cannot find it in me to relish its advent.”

As far as she knew, Thor hadn't been back to the Helicarrier at all since his brother dropped him out of it, three miles from the ground. This wasn't a personal fight for him, wasn't difficult the way it was for Cap to fight his own uniform, but it wouldn't be a pleasant one.

“Well hey, piece of cake,” Clint said, because he'd decided to be _that_ way about it. “Not like I've never done it before.”

If she had a fully functional arm, she might have strangled him.

His response to her abortive motion was a grin. “I'll be okay, Nat. Everybody else in our little freak show is keeping it together, which after the week we've had is kind of a thing.”

“Nobody else had—”

“You don't have to say it.”

“There is a difference,” Thor said.

“Well, yeah, no advantage of sur—”

“This time, it is a choice.”

Silence fell again.

*

Not many people could out-stare Nick Fury. He gave Rogers credit for a good attempt. “It's my ship, Captain. I'm going with you.” They had gone around this ride twice, and he was ready for another round.

Cap looked around the table.

“We _are_ understrength,” Clint said. He sat with his hands folded on the table, perfectly still. Even Nick couldn't tell what was going on in his head.

Natasha nodded, but with a hesitation.

Bruce's smile was wintry. “I'm not sure the Other Guy understands voting. You want to put yourself in the middle of this? Be my guest, and don't say you weren't warned.”

“A weapon you cannot trust is in your enemy's hand.” Thor shook his head.

“I don't think he'll actually stab us in the back.” Tony shrugged. “But I'm all for him going in first.”

“Naturally,” Nick said. “My ship.”

“And afterward?” Steve wasn't budging an inch.

“We may or may not have a Council. Several of them are badly compromised now. If Franken's alive, we can hang him on the secret serum project—without dragging Dr. Banner into a spotlight. We've got his pilot, and that one soldier.” Who might not live out the night. The new serum formulation was not without side effects. “We've got the stuff you dug up about his creative use of funds. I don't think anyone's going to offer to hold his hand while he goes down.”

Stark's eyes narrowed. “If you tell me Stern is going to weasel out of this— ”

Steve coughed.

“—I will move on and not give it another thought.” Stark sat back in his chair and grinned.

Whatever he had in mind, Nick wasn't about to claim that Stern didn't have it coming. He said, “The last missing piece was the HYDRA connection. Between what you've got and what SHIELD had started on when things went to hell, we can nail them. Whether or not the World Security Council continues in its current form, we can make one hell of a case that the other agencies are _not_ , in fact, capable of handling the kind of things SHIELD does.”

“And nothing changes.” Steve had a very pointed way of looking at people.

“I don't think much of their notion of change.” He glanced around the group; bedraggled and beat-up as they were, no one flinched. A silence descended. He might never get to see this again, six sharp minds in consideration, turning toward a single outcome without an order given.

The answer was yes.

“You'll follow orders,” Steve said. Not a question.

Nick smiled. “Sure, Captain.”

“Then here's the play.”

*

Clint said, “What do you think Fury's going to pull?”

“I call 'not it,'” Tony said. “Thor, keep the cape damn wrapped _around_ you this time. I'm not picking you up again.” He could see the lights of the carrier below, well out in the open reaches of the North Atlantic. Either none of Franken's people had figured out how to get it airborne, of they hadn't thought it worth the risk to experiment.

“I should hope I do not require a second lesson,” Thor said.

“Banner?” Cap said. “How's it going up there?”

“I'm in position.” Bruce's voice sounded rusty and cold.

“Opening up the other comms now.” A moment later Steve said, “Final check, all.” They sounded off, just like people who knew what they were doing.

Widow listened in from the Tower, watched the satellites and everything else they could find, ready to deal with whatever the fallout might be.

Fury dutifully reported, even though he was right next to Cap. Of course Fury knew how to sneak onto the ship through an access port that wasn't on any of the schematics Tony had seen and that probably wouldn't be there the next time he visited the flying barge. Their objective was to find Franken.

Thor and Clint made a less likely duo, ready to hit the detention level and release any SHIELD people being held there. That had been Clint's idea, and maybe it was some kind of weird-ass restitution he had in mind, but since Cap insisted on doing this the hard way, they might as well not give HYDRA hostages. Natasha had given Clint a long, hard stare but didn't argue, so maybe he wasn't going to have a breakdown on them.

Bruce was ready to provide last-ditch backup, but with any luck, he'd stay out of this one. The plan left Tony playing clean-up, but he'd had enough of close quarters for one... day? This was worse than the Chitauri for sheer ground-down, bone-deep weariness.

“Go,” Steve said.

*

Bruce was used to operating on auto-pilot. All those years of running, of waking up in strange places, he could do a lot without really thinking about it. He had been that way since the mask came down in the missile silo, since he realized that this might be it, that he might actually die. Had been that way since he awakened to what passed for humanity in Thor's comforting grip.

He'd had no control at all, just like the worst of the bad times, before the Avengers. The Hulk had been tracking Franken's scent all over the boy Lucas, and while Bruce could imagine why he had not touched the child, no one else had that protection. He could have killed Tony—hadn't even _seen_ him, and that blazing idiot still thought he could laugh it off with _No harm, no foul._ If he hadn't been in the armor, he would have been _paste._

Bruce drifted high over the ocean, wrapped in layers of blankets, and did his best not to exist.

*

Captain America stood guard as Nick tapped at the terminal. Five seconds later, they heard Natasha's voice.

“We're in. They've figured out the security system. I'm checking the video feeds and activity logs now.” She started feeding Fury status information on the helicarrier levels—most of them dark, the new staff concentrated in the detention area and the upper decks.

“Where's Franken?”

“Looks like they don't have ID cards that work here yet, so it's all manual checks. His location isn't in the system.”

Steve heard Fury grumble under his breath.

“Last report from the bridge is quiet.”

Steve said, “Thor, Hawkeye, go ahead. They've got manual lock-down on and extra guards. Be careful.”

“Indeed, captain,” Thor said.

Steve saw the motion at the end of the corridor and moved to interpose himself. There wasn't any disguising themselves, and no stopping the alarm from being sounded. He hoped he could talk the soldiers down from anything irrevocable—being Captain America tended to help with that—until a familiar dark glow lit that end of the hall. He brought the shield up before the soldier could fire. Phase 2 weapons had a punch that forced him back a step. A dull klaxon sounded, calling up memories he couldn't afford to indulge. He charged the end of the hall. A brief scuffle had the soldier on the floor, but the damage was done.

Natasha said, “Jets are warming up. I've got readings on three, make that five getting ready.”

“Iron Man, those are yours. He's not getting away again,” Cap said. “Anything takes off from that deck, you put it back down.”

“My pleasure,” Tony said.

Steve glanced at Nick. “Can we shut down the ship from here?”

“Bridge,” Nick replied with a shake of his head. “I'll give you the key command, just in case.”

Once satisfied that Steve had it memorized, they headed in that direction, quick and wary, as the corridors began to fill with the sound of running feet.

“This way,” Nick said. “Up three levels, left.”

Steve took point up the ladder and covered the exit while Nick followed him. Franken's soldiers had already taken up positions at both ends of the hall, ready to pin them down there. Steve's ears picked out confusion in the ranks, some arguing with their orders. Not everyone on the ship was willing to shoot at him, but some of them were, and some of those had the new guns. Steve glanced down the ladder in between deflecting fire and found it empty of leather-coated SHIELD directors. He wasn't particularly surprised.

“Fury?”

No response over the comm.

“Widow, we've lost track of the boss. Keep your eyes open for him.”

“Acknowledged.” She sounded annoyed but resigned.

Steve debated with himself for a moment, then continued moving forward. Whatever Fury was up to, the plan was the plan. The opposition—he couldn't think of them as the _enemy_ —didn't have their hearts in it. He knocked soldiers out of the way until he reached the bridge overlook, kicked out a reinforced wall panel, and dropped down into the briefing area. He jumped from there into the command center itself.

*

Clint looked at Thor, aware of his concern as alarms went off all around them.

 _Wait for the cameras to go dark._ He couldn't move.

“Nat?” It was little more than a breath.

“I'm here,” she said. “Hatch to your right, down two levels. You'll find some guards down there.”

He knew that. He knew the Helicarrier inside and out. Two more breaths and his muscles unlocked. He climbed automatically. Above him, Thor made a regiment's worth of noise in himself, and Mjolnir clattered against the rungs. It helped to break the sense of nightmare.

They reached the detention level. “No sense being subtle about this,” Clint said over the sound of alarms.

“Indeed, it would be of little use,” Thor agreed, and took point. The blast doors were all down, sealing off the area, but SHIELD hadn't come up with anything that could withstand Mjolnir.

They weren't headed for the drop-trap, still undergoing redesign and testing, still looking for something that would stop the kind of people Clint now called friends. He wondered if SHIELD was ever going to realize that it was wasting its time. They headed forward through another heavy door, toward the standard holding cells. Clint launched a couple of smoke-bomb tips past Thor, sowed a fine amount of chaos at the far end of the corridor, felt himself relax into the motion. Thor backhanded a couple of soldiers out of the way and started knocking down cell walls.

These being SHIELD people, and all high enough level that they were worth keeping out of way, they were quick to react, and Thor was easy to recognize. Two minutes after the first door went down, the two of them had the world's most lethal rear-guard.

When they broke down the second barrier went down, they found disruptor fire waiting. Thor braced himself and waded forward. Clint gave him all the backup he could. The other mere mortals scattered for cover. Thor was about to throw Mjolnir when Clint spotted a familiar figure at the back of the mass.

“Thor, no!” Clint touched the quiver controls; an arrowhead moved into place. “Marston.” Cornered. HYDRA agent in a trap, about to know it, and they were nothing if not predictable.

“Hold, villain!” Thor bellowed, and readied himself for a charge.

Marston's head turned, looking for a way out; that was enough. Clint fired. The arrow smacked into the base of Marston's skull, right where the self-destruct option on his brain ought to be. The man went stiff, then collapsed against the nearest wall as his eyes glazed over, but his brain didn't implode.

“Cap, we got him.”

*

In Tony Stark's catalog of life's pleasures, playing tag with fighter jets was high up the approved list. The pilots might, just possibly, be regular Joes following orders, and not HYDRA, which complicated things. On the other hand, surgical precision was kind of his thing. Two of the planes never made it off the runway. The other three shot off into the darkness—they were gunning for him, not making a break for it yet.

He grinned to himself and poured on the speed, stayed just a meter over the water with the three of them hot behind him, a trail of sparks between the black planes of the sky and the ocean, his blood singing, exhaustion and aches forgotten. Although, three of them was actually kind of a problem. He hadn't had a chance to redo the suit's outer layer to ignore disruptor fire. If those things could take down Thor, he didn't want to know what they would do to mortal flesh. He was doing a lot of dodging.

Tony switched to a private channel.

“So, Bruce. I can't help but notice that you're planning to make a break for it as soon as we're done here.” Nothing. He went lower still as blue disruptor fire crackled past him, close enough to touch the water. “I know that look. It's someone about to do something monumentally stupid for what they think is a good reason.”

Nothing.

“At least give it a few days before you go?” That wasn't supposed to be a question, let alone a plea. All that had kept Bruce around this long had been his growing willingness to trust the Hulk with the rest of the team, and that had gone bye-bye. “You know, we've all had our moments. I mean, seriously, do you not remember that time I almost made _Steve_ lose his temper?”

“That was under magical influence,” Bruce said.

“That only worked because we wanted it to. Maybe focus on hating _the assholes who did it to you_ and not _yourself_.”

A long silence followed. Tony took out four missiles. He learned the hard way how close was too close to the edge of the disruptor field _ow,_ but the information would come in handy. He considered blowing the plane into very small pieces; the pilot _might_ live. Back on the ship there were muttered conversations and the occasional, unmistakeable sound of Cap hitting someone very hard.

Bruce sighed. “We can have this conversation later, all right?”

“Promise?”

“I....”

“Hold that thought.” A new alert popped up on the display. “JARVIS, scan frequencies.”

“...US Air Force ordering you to stand down, I repeat stand down...”

Tony grinned and broke in, “Sweetiekins, my very own dulcet Jigglypuff, you are late to this party.”

“Stay off this frequency, Tony, not helping. I repeat, this is Lieutenant Colonel...”

One of the three planes broke off and headed back to the carrier. The other two didn't acknowledge.

“I think those guys might be HYDRA,” Tony said.

“Nice.”

“I _don't_ think they're going to fall for your air of mystery and reserve, but good try.” Blue light reached across the ocean. Tony moved a bit to the left. The light followed him.

“The fuck was that?!”

He put on more speed. “Oh, the usual. SHIELD can't keep hold of any damn thing they build.” He could see Rhodey now, a silver shape in the darkness. War Machine spat fire at the jet; it evaded right into Tony's line of fire. “Hey, not bad.”

“Not bad. Really? Wow, I'm gonna have that framed.”

“You should.” He noticed a change but not the cause, busy scanning for that other plane and... and something was missing.

“Power failure,” JARVIS said, ever-calm. “Switching to backup.”

“What?!” Tony blinked at the readouts. He had put countermeasures into the suit shell against their damn energy-diverters so how—?

He never had gotten a chance to run those tests on the arc reactor after he got shot.

“Tony, what—” Rhodey had picked up something wrong.

“Uh, one second.” There was that other plane again.

JARVIS said, “Power at five percent and falling.”

“Iron Man, break off,” Natasha said over the comm.

“Yeah, that's gonna be a problem. Still got some company out here.” He could slow down, conserve power, and get shot. The glow from the energy-diverter had started to build around the turrets bolted onto the fighter jet, and War Machine didn't have any defenses against that, would leave both of them dead in the air. Tony darted into its line of fire, blocked the effect and headed straight up; the pilot followed him, forced by physics into a wider curve, and after that, the War Machine's repulsor trail. He spun back around into a twisting dive, much faster than the jet could turn, and fired. “What are you waiting for, a—”

A mile in the air, the repulsors sputtered and failed.

The water was very deep.

*

Steve deflected shots with the shield. “Tony?”

No response.

“I've got this,” Bruce said over the comm. “Rhodes, send up a flare or something, Hulk can swim. How much time do we have?”

“JARVIS says the suit has about twenty minutes worth of air,” Natasha said.

“Hurrying.”

“Cap, the cameras in Medical just went dark,” Natasha said.

“Fury?” Steve said.

“Bet you.”

“On my way.” He keyed in the command Fury had given him with his left hand. The distant hum of the engines muttered to a halt. Screens all over the bridge went dark, and the klaxons died with a sad little noise. Given darkness and people who weren't certain of the ship layout or whether they were supposed to be shooting or not, one man who knew where he was going could move quickly. The hall that ran through the medical section stood empty but for a handful of groaning or unconscious figures. Only one of them made any attempt to stop Steve.

Perhaps he owed Fury an apology; Steve had expected to find the Franken dead for entirely plausible reasons. Instead, he glanced through the door to find an apparent stalemate.

Franken looked like hell. That was more than most people could say after Natasha shot them. He had a gun trained on Fury and looked steady enough to use it. Nick didn't have a weapon in sight, but that didn't mean anything.

“The thing is, general,” Fury said, “that unless you put that down, I will take a page from your book and blow this entire damn ship to pieces.”

“You think I'll fall for that?”

“You don't have to. It's already done.” He glanced at Steve. “Countdown timer's about halfway through by now.”

Steve couldn't help looking startled. Couldn't help thinking, and it probably showed, that Fury might actually do something like that.

Fury went on, “The question now is do you want to stop it, or send all of your people to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Because if it means getting HYDRA weapons out of the world, I'm all right with this.”

Steve's glance moved from Fury's frown to Franken's gray expression and the unmoving barrel of the gun. Fury wore body armor—he probably slept in it—but Franken had good aim, might manage a head shot. Steve _thought_ that he could move fast enough.

Franken dropped the gun.

*

“I swear to God, he does this on purpose.” Rhodey's voice was absolutely _not_ shaking with relief as he reassured himself that Tony was breathing. “Don't know about you, this man's taken fifteen years off _my_ life.”

The Hulk gave his gravelly laugh.

*

**Epilog: Some Revelation**

_Three days later._

Nick kept half an eye on the repair progress via the bridge monitors, satisfied by the steady hum of activity throughout the ship.

SHIELD was back. The Council's status remained uncertain, the subject of talks between heads of state and their proxies, none of whom would admit how close they had come to losing control. Nick had the odds at two to one that nothing significant changed; Franken would retire, write his memoirs and blame the whole business on Marston, whose fate remained to be determined. He was probably too mercenary to be turned, but SHIELD would find a use for him.

The Avengers had not made any group statements. Stark had been out and about, making sure that rumors of his death were seen to be exaggerated. He had mentioned off-hand that he was forming a new foundation to support the team; anyone who thought that killing him would create a resource problem for the Avengers would have to think again. Rogers had been sighted but hadn't been in touch; ditto Thor. Fury didn't expect to hear from Widow until she had healed up, or from Hawkeye until his status in SHIELD got sorted out, which was on Nick's to-do list with three thousand other things, including “formulate policy on dealing with artificial intelligences.” No one knew whether Banner was in the city or not, but the smart money was on “not.”

“Sir?” one of the bridge techs said. “There's something I think you ought to see.”

*

“Don't forget closed captioning.” Tony straightened his cuffs.

“We are live worldwide in three, two, one.” The light turned red.

Smile.

“Hi. I'm Tony Stark. You may know me from—well, a lot of places, but today I'm from the Avengers. Here with me is Captain America. You probably remember us saving the world once or twice. We'll be talking more about that, and us, later on, but first—happy news: Pepper and I are getting married. Thank you, don't send any gifts.

“On to business, which is to do with some people you might not even know exist. You didn't vote for them. You probably don't know their names. They call themselves the World Security Council. We're going to show you some recordings that you might find interesting, and then give you some phone numbers and stuff, so you might want to get a pencil now.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really the end; I have no idea what else I would do from here beyond filling in a few corners. 
> 
> Thank you to my marvelous beta readers, to everyone who stuck with me this long, to those who left comments and encouragement, and to everyone who might see this in the future. I hope you've enjoyed my little story.


End file.
